The Sculptress Read Online Free PDF Page B

tried to ward off the axe. It’s making me sick just thinking
about it.’
    ‘OK.’
    ‘OK what?’
    ‘Don’t write it.’
    Roz’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘I thought you’d
argue at least.’
    ‘Why? One thing I’ve learnt in this business is that
you can’t force people to write. Correction. You can
if you’re persistent and manipulative enough, but the
result is always below par.’ Roz heard her take a drink.
‘In any case, Jenny Atherton sent me the first ten
chapters of her new book this morning. It’s all good
stuff on the inherent dangers of a poor self-image,
with obesity as number one confidence crippler. She’s
unearthed a positive goldmine of film and television
personalities who’ve all sunk to untold depths since
gaining weight and being forced off camera. It’s disgustingly
tasteless, of course, like all Jenny’s books,
but it’ll sell. I think you should send all your gen –
sorry about the pun – to her. Olive would make rather
a dramatic conclusion, don’t you think, particularly if
we can get a photograph of her in her cell.’
    ‘No chance.’
    ‘No chance of getting a photograph? Shame.’
    ‘No chance of my sending anything to Jenny Atherton.
Honestly, Iris,’ she stormed, losing her temper,
‘you really are beneath contempt. You should be
working for the gutter press. You believe in exploiting anyone just as long as they bring in the cash. Jenny
Atherton is the last person I’d allow near Olive.’
    ‘Can’t see why,’ said Iris, now chewing heartily on
something. ‘I mean if you don’t want to write about
her and you’re refusing ever to visit her again because
she makes you sick, why cavil at somebody else having
a bash?’
    ‘It’s the principle.’
    ‘Can’t see it, old thing. Sounds more like dog in
the manger to me. Listen, I can’t dally. We’ve got
people in. At least let me tell Jenny that Olive’s up
for grabs. She can start from scratch. It’s not as
though you’ve got very far, is it?’
    ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Roz snapped. ‘I will do
it. Goodbye.’ She slammed the receiver down.
    At the other end of the line, Iris winked at her
husband. ‘And you accuse me of not caring,’ she
murmured. ‘Now, what could have been more caring
than that?’
    ‘Hobnailed boots,’ Gerry Fielding suggested acidly.

    Roz read Olive’s statement again. ‘My relationship
with my mother and sister was never close.’ She
reached for her tape-recorder and rewound the tape,
flicking to and fro till she found the piece she wanted.
‘I called her Amber because, at the age of two, I
couldn’t get my tongue round the “ l ” or the “ s ”. It
suited her. She had lovely honey-blonde hair, and as she grew up she always answered to Amber and never
to Alison. She was very pretty . . .’
    It meant nothing of course, in itself. There was no
unwritten law that said psychopaths were incapable of
pretending. Rather the reverse, in fact. But there was
a definite softening of the voice when she spoke about
her sister, a tenderness which from anyone else Roz
would have interpreted as love. And why hadn’t she
mentioned the fight with her mother? Really, that was
very odd. It could well have been her justification for
what she did that day.

    The chaplain, quite unaware that Olive was behind
him, started violently as a large hand fell on his
shoulder. It wasn’t the first time she had crept up on
him and he wondered again, as he had wondered
before, how she managed to do it. Her normal gait
was a painful shuffle which set his teeth on edge every
time he heard its approach. He steeled himself and
turned with a friendly smile. ‘Why, Olive, how nice
to see you. What brings you to the chapel?’
    The bald eyes were amused. ‘Did I frighten you?’
    ‘You startled me. I didn’t hear you coming.’
    ‘Probably because you weren’t listening. You must
listen first if you want to hear, Chaplain. Surely they