The Sculptress Read Online Free PDF

to me to leave the house and
pretend that someone else had done it. I don’t
know why except that my mind was set on hiding
the bodies. That’s all I thought about. I did not
enjoy cutting them up. I had to undress them so
I could see where the joints were. I did not know
I’d mixed the pieces up. I rearranged them out of
decency, but there was so much blood that I
couldn’t tell which body was which. I must have
put my mother’s head on Amber’s body by mistake.
I acted alone.
    I am sorry for what I have done. I lost my
temper and behaved stupidly. I confirm that everything
written here is true.
    Signed – OLIVE MARTIN

    The statement was a photocopy, covering three
typed sheets of A4. On the reverse of the last sheet
was a photocopied extract from what was presumably
the pathologist’s report. It was brief, just a concluding
paragraph, and there was no indication to show who
had written it.

    The injuries to the heads are entirely consistent
with a blow or blows from a heavy solid object.
These were inflicted before death and were not
fatal. While there is no forensic evidence to suggest that the rolling pin was the weapon used, there is
none to prove it wasn’t. Death in both cases was
caused by severance of the carotid artery during
the decapitation process. Examination of the axe
revealed considerable rusting beneath the blood
stains. It is highly probable that it was blunt before
it was used to dismember the bodies. The extensive
bruising around the cuts on Amber Martin’s neck
and trunk indicate three or four strikes with an axe
before the carving knife was used to cut the throat.
It is unlikely that she ever regained consciousness.
In Mrs Gwen Martin’s case, however, the lacerations
to her hands and forearms, inflicted before
death, are consistent with her regaining consciousness
and trying to defend herself. Two stabbing
incisions below the jawline imply two failed
attempts before her throat was successfully cut with
the knife. These attacks were carried out with
savage ferocity.

    Roz read the pages through then put them on the
table beside her and stared into the middle distance.
She felt very cold. Olive Martin took an axe . . . Oh,
God! No wonder Mr Crew called her a psychopath.
Three or four strikes with a blunted axe and Amber
was still alive! Bile rose in her throat, nauseous, bitter,
gagging. She must stop thinking about it . But she
couldn’t, of course. The muffled thuds of metal
bouncing off soft flesh boomed loudly in her brain. How dark and shadowy the flat was . She reached out
abruptly and snapped on a table lamp but the light
did nothing to dispel the vivid pictures that crowded
her imagination, nightmare visions of a madwoman,
frenzied by blood-lust. And the bodies . . .
    How far had she committed herself to writing this
book? Had she signed anything? Had she received an
advance. She couldn’t remember and a cold fist of
panic squeezed her insides. She was living in a twilight
world where so little mattered that day followed day
with nothing to distinguish their passing. She thrust
herself out of her chair and paced about the floor,
cursing Iris for bouncing her, cursing herself for her
own insanity, and cursing Mr Crew for not sending
her the statement when she’d first written to him.
    She seized the telephone and dialled Iris’s number.
‘Have I signed anything on the Olive Martin book?
Why? Because I damn well can’t write it, that’s why.
The woman scares the bloody shit out of me and I
am not visiting her again.’
    ‘I thought you liked her.’ Iris spoke calmly through
a mouthful of supper.
    Roz ignored this comment. ‘I’ve got her statement
here and the pathologist’s report, or his conclusions
at least. I should have read them first. I’m not doing
it. I will not glorify what she did by writing a book
about it. My God, Iris, they were alive when she cut
their heads off. Her poor wretched mother