The Sculptress by Minette Walters Read Free Book Online Page A

‘Nessun Dorma’ triggering the stops and starts of
their rows. She could remember every detail of every
World Cup football match. They were the only peaceful
periods in a summer of war. How much better,
she thought wearily, if she had called a halt then
instead of dragging the misery out to its far more
terrible conclusion.
    A net curtain, in the semi to the right, number
24, twitched behind a Neighbourhood Watch sticker
which proclaimed itself loudly against the glass. A
case, Roz wondered, of locking the stable door after
the horse had bolted? Or was that same net curtain
twitching the day Olive wielded her chopper? Two
garages filled the gap between the houses, but it was
possible the occupants had heard something. ‘ Olive
Martin took an axe and gave her mother forty
whacks . . .’ The words circled in her brain as they had
done, on and off, for days.
    She resumed her contemplation of number 22, but
watched the net curtain out of the corner of her eye.
It moved again, plucked by prying fingers, and she
felt unreasonably irritated by the busybody spying on
her. It was an empty, wasted life that had time to
stand and stare. What sort of interfering old bitch
inhabited there, she wondered? The frustrated spinster
who got off on voyeurism? Or the bored and boring
wife with nothing better to do than find fault? Then
something clicked inside her head, a realignment of thought like the points on a railway line. Just the sort
of busybody she wanted, of course, but why had that
not occurred to her immediately? Really, she worried
about herself. She spent so much time in neutral now,
just listening to the footfalls, leading nowhere, that
echoed in her memory.

    A frail old man opened the door, a small, shrunken
person with transparent skin and bowed shoulders.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said, standing back and ushering
her into his corridor. ‘I heard what you said to
Mrs Blair. She won’t talk to you, and I’ll tell you
something else, it wouldn’t help you if she did. They
only came four years ago when the first youngster was
on the way. Didn’t know the family at all and, as far
as I know, never spoke to poor old Bob. What shall I
say? She’s got a nerve. Typical of today’s youngsters.
Always wanting something for nothing.’ He muttered
on, leading the way into his living room. ‘Resents
living in a goldfish bowl but forgets that they got the
house for a pittance just because it was a goldfish
bowl. Ted and Dorothy Clarke virtually gave the place
away because they couldn’t stand it any longer. What
shall I say? Ungrateful girl. Imagine what it’s like for
those of us who’ve always lived here. No bargains
for us. We have to put up with it, don’t we? Sit down.
Sit down.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘You’re from Mr Crew, you say. They found the
child yet?’ He stared into her face with disconcertingly
bright blue eyes.
    Roz stared back, her mind racing. ‘That’s not my
province,’ she said carefully, ‘so I’m not sure where
they are on that one. I’m conducting a follow-up
of Olive’s case. You did know that Mr Crew is still
representing her?’
    ‘What’s to represent?’ he asked. His eyes strayed in
disappointment. ‘Poor little Amber. They should
never have made her give it up. I said it would cause
trouble.’
    Roz sat very still and stared at the worn carpet.
    ‘People don’t listen, of course,’ he said crossly. ‘You
give them well-meant advice and they tell you you’re
interfering. What shall I say? I could see where it
would lead.’ He fell into a resentful silence.
    ‘You’re talking about the child,’ said Roz at last.
    He looked at her curiously. ‘If they’d found him,
you’d know.’
    It was a boy, then . ‘Oh, yes.’
    ‘Bob did his best but there’s rules about these
things. They’d signed him away, given up their stake,
so to speak. You’d think it was different where
money’s concerned, but there’s