The Sculptress by Minette Walters Read Free Book Online Page B

no contest for the
likes of us against the government. What shall I say?
They’re all thieves.’
    Roz made what she could of this speech. Was he
talking about Mr Martin’s will? Was this child (Amber’s child?) the beneficiary? On the pretext of
looking for a handkerchief, she opened her bag and
surreptitiously switched on her tape-recorder. This
conversation, she felt, was going to be tortuous. ‘You
mean,’ she tried tentatively, ‘that the government will
get the money?’
    ‘Course.’
    She nodded wisely. ‘Things aren’t exactly stacked
in our favour.’
    ‘Never are. Damn thieves. Take every last penny
off you. And what for? To make sure the skivers go
on breeding like rabbits at the expense of the rest of
us. Makes you sick. There’s a woman in the council
houses has five children, and all by different fathers.
What shall I say? They’re all worthless. Is that the sort
of breeding stock we want in this country? Good-for-nothings,
with not a brain between them. Where’s
the sense in encouraging a woman like that? Should
have sterilized her and put a stop to it.’
    Roz was noncommittal, unwilling to be drawn
down a cul-de-sac, even more unwilling to antagonize
him. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’
    ‘Course I’m right, and it’ll be the death of the
species. Before the dole, she’d have starved to death
and her brood with her, and quite right too. What
shall I say? It’s the survival of the fittest in this world.
There’s no other species mollycoddles its rotten apples
the way we do, and certainly none that pays its rotten apples to produce more rotten apples. Makes you sick.
How many children have you got?’
    Roz smiled faintly. ‘None, I’m afraid. I’m not
married.’
    ‘See what I mean?’ He cleared his throat noisily.
‘Makes you sick. What shall I say? It’s your sort,
decent sort, should have the children.’
    ‘How many do you have, Mr – er—?’ She made a
play of consulting her diary, as if looking for his name.
    ‘Hayes. Mr Hayes. Two lads. Fine boys. Grown up
now, of course. Only the one granddaughter,’ he
added morosely. ‘It’s not right. I keep telling them
they’ve a duty to their class but I could be pissing in
the wind – excuse my French – for all the good it
does.’ His face set into familiar lines of irritation. His
obsession was clearly a deep-seated one.
    Roz knew she had to take the plunge or one hobby
horse would follow another as inexorably as night
follows day. ‘You’re a very perceptive man, Mr Hayes.
Why were you so sure that making Amber give up
her son would cause trouble?’
    ‘Stands to reason there’d come a time when he was
wanted again. It’s sod’s law, isn’t it? The minute you
throw something out, that’s the minute you find
you needed it after all. But it’s too late by then. It’s
gone. My wife was one, forever throwing things away,
pots of paint, carpet, and two years later you needed
to patch. Me, I hoard. What shall I say? I value
everything.’
    ‘So, are you saying Mr Martin wasn’t bothered
about his grandson before the murders?’
    He touched the end of his nose with thumb and
forefinger. ‘Who’s to say? He kept his own counsel,
did Bob. It was Gwen who insisted on signing the kid
away. Wouldn’t have it in the house. Understandable,
I suppose, in view of Amber’s age.’
    ‘How old was she?’
    He frowned. ‘I thought Mr Crew knew all this.’
    She smiled. ‘He does but, as I told you, it’s not
my province. I’m just interested, that’s all. It seems
so tragic.’
    ‘It is that. Thirteen,’ he said wistfully. ‘She was
thirteen. Poor little kid. Didn’t know anything about
anything. Some lout at the school was responsible.’
He jerked his head towards the back of his house.
‘Parkway Comprehensive.’
    ‘Is that the school Amber and Olive went to?’
    ‘Hah!’ His old eyes were amused. ‘Gwen wouldn’t
have stood for that. She sent them