‘Far from it,’ Maggie says. ‘You haven’t come up with a single good reason for doubting Wolfe’s conviction. The jury heard all about Sandra’s alibi for the night of Zoe’s disappearance. They heard the speculation about the difficulties of getting women into the caves but concluded, quite rightly, that Hamish was as likely a candidate as any other. And, whilst I can understand that these might seem like discrepancies to you, they are balanced against some iron-clad evidence, namely the hair and carpet fibres found on Jessie’s body, the Facebook posting from Hamish’s computer and the sighting of his car at the petrol station on the night Myrtle Reid disappeared. I’ve heard nothing new here and before I can even think of taking on this case, I will need something new.’
‘We have something new.’
Broon is speaking so quietly that only Maggie can have heard him.
‘What?’
There seems to be some sort of unspoken conversation taking place between Broon and Odi. She is shaking her head firmly and Maggie catches a glimpse of a puffy, pale face, framed by short grey hair.
Around the circle, others look mystified.
‘What is it, Broon?’ asks Shiven. ‘Do you and Odi know something you haven’t shared with us? Because absolute honesty was a founding principle of our group.’
‘Broon?’ Sandra looks about to get out of her seat. ‘Odi, what is it?’
Broon seems to make up his mind. ‘Hamish was arrested on 4 December 2013. Before the bodies of Chloe Wood and Myrtle Reid were found.’
‘Broon, no!’
Maggie ignores Odi’s outburst. ‘That’s right. They were found some months later. They’d decomposed quite considerably.’
‘We saw someone going into Rill Cavern the following April. Odi and me. We saw somebody going in carrying something heavy.’
‘Only me, Broon. You were asleep.’
Maggie’s heart is beating faster, she simply can’t help it. She leans forward to get a good look at the woman. Odi is older than she’d first thought. Her short, straight hair is completely grey. Just the plumpness of her face smooths out the wrinkles, giving her a younger look. ‘You saw someone carrying the body of Myrtle Reid into Rill Cavern?’
‘No, no, it wasn’t a body.’ Odi can’t look up from the floor. ‘It was dark, we were a long way away. I just saw someone, with a small light. You know, like one of those miner’s lamps? On their heads? Nothing really, just a dark figure, with a light.’
‘I know,’ Maggie says. ‘People buy them for camping. Sometimes for running.’
‘Well, Odi saw someone wearing one of those,’ says Broon, ‘and carrying something, going into the cave.’
‘What time?’ Maggie ignores Broon, keeping her eyes fixed on Odi.
‘After dark.’ The other woman shrugs. ‘Maybe around eleven o’clock. Possibly midnight.’
‘Male or female? Young? Old?’
‘I couldn’t tell. They were too far away.’
‘Did you tell the police this?’
Silence. Odi is still looking at her feet. Broon is watching his girlfriend.
‘Odi!’ Sandra can’t keep quiet. ‘I can’t believe you haven’t told us this before. I can’t believe you didn’t tell the police. Hamish has been in prison for nearly two years.’
‘Now don’t you be having a go at my lady. We joined this group. We did what we could for Hamish.’
Sandra is furious. ‘You did nothing! You had evidence that could have helped him and you didn’t even tell us.’
Odi risks glancing up at Sandra. She has tears in her eyes. ‘We have enough hassle from the police as it is. They’d have said we were too far away, that it could have been anyone exploring the cave, of course they’d be carrying equipment. It wasn’t necessarily anything to do with Myrtle.’
‘And another thing – when Odi saw what she did, we had no idea it would mean anything.’ Broon has raised his voice. ‘I’m not sure we even knew about the missing women. Or Hamish’s arrest. We don’t take The Times every day. This was weeks before Myrtle’s body was found.’
‘And by the time you knew it could be significant, more time had passed, your memory wasn’t that clear anyway.’ Maggie looks across at Sandra. ‘You mustn’t blame Odi. The chances are a good prosecution barrister would have made mincemeat of her on the witness stand. If the defence even thought she was credible enough to put up in the first place.’
‘But—’
Maggie turns away from Sandra, cutting her off. ‘Where were you, Odi? When you saw this person?’
‘We were higher up the gorge. In Gossam Cave. We often sleep in it if the weather isn’t too bad. Lots of travellers use the caves in summer. I just thought it was someone spending the night.’
Maggie gives the other woman what she hopes is a reassuring smile. ‘Most likely it was.’
‘But—’ Sandra is barely able to keep her seat.
‘On the other hand, if it was Myrtle whom you saw, then the person carrying her couldn’t have been Hamish, because he’d already been remanded in custody.’
‘Exactly.’ Sandra is standing, Daisy whimpering at her side. ‘Odi, we’re going to the police. We’re going now. I’ll drive you.’
‘No.’ Odi jumps to her feet, Broon copying her a second later. He follows his girlfriend from the room.
‘So what do you think?’ Shiven asks again. ‘Will you take the case on?’
Maggie looks round at the group. At the people who are here out of a sense of drama, at those who are looking for a cause – any cause. At those who come because it is something to do once a month, because it lets them kid themselves they have friends.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I can’t help you. There is nothing here for me to work with. I’ll let you get on with your meeting.’
* * *
Maggie reverses away from the building, slowly, because the area is dark and she can’t quite remember what is behind her. As she switches gear, the passenger door opens, letting cold, wet air fly into the car. The wild-haired, dark-eyed woman, Sirocco, climbs in and pulls the door shut.
Close up, there is an intensity to her face that is unnerving, and yet in spite of the coarse skin, the heavy make-up, she has a beauty that Maggie hadn’t noticed in the clubhouse. Her dark eyes are wide and clear, her cheekbones high, her jawline clean. She stares straight at Maggie. ‘I’m sorry about having a go at you. I know you’re only trying to help.’
Maggie pulls on the handbrake. ‘Actually, I’m not. I would only ever have got involved if I thought it was worth my while. You have no need to apologize to me.’
‘People say if anyone can get him out, you can. You have to try. He can’t stay in there. He needs people on his side.’
Maggie glances back over her shoulder. ‘He seems to have quite a few people on his side.’
Sirocco makes a dismissive gesture. ‘You think that lot know, or care, whether he did it or not? Sandra doesn’t care how many women he’s killed, she just wants her baby out of prison. The rest don’t give a monkey’s, they go along with it all because it gives some meaning to their sad little lives. If Hamish walked through the door at one of these stupid meetings, they’d probably all run screaming like kids frightened of a bogeyman.’
In spite of her annoyance, there is something about the image that tickles Maggie. ‘If the rest of them are here for the glamour, what’s motivating you?’
‘I told you, I love him. He loves me. Hamish and I are soulmates, born to be together.’
‘Even though you’ve never met?’ The woman is a fruitcake. Hopefully, given that they are alone, a harmless one.
‘You don’t know that. You only know what Sandra told you.’
‘Sirocco, this is all very well, but it’s getting late, and I have another appointment to get to. So, unless you have something of substance to tell me, I’m going to have to ask you to get out of my car.’
‘Give me a lift to Minehead town centre, we can talk on the way.’
‘Certainly
not. Please get out of my car.’
Sirocco sits back in the passenger seat, arms folded, her body language saying she is going nowhere. Maggie can see the other woman’s face in the dark mirror of the windscreen. Their eyes meet in the reflection. Oh, what the hell? Maggie starts the engine.
‘Actually, I live a few miles the other side of Minehead, where are you heading for?’
‘Minehead town centre, and you get out without argument or I call the police.’ The barrier is up and Maggie drives out of the park, narrowly avoiding two people who are walking, hand in hand, down the road. Both are carrying large backpacks. She takes her foot off the accelerator.
‘Those two weirdos will stink your car out.’ Sirocco has seen them too, is looking back through the rear window.
The two travellers draw closer and Maggie opens the passenger window.
‘Can I give you a lift into Minehead?’ she asks.
‘That’s very dece—’ Broon is interrupted by a tugging on his arm. He turns his back, there is a mumble of conversation, and then he bends down.
‘Thank you, but we prefer to walk. Have a good evening.’
The main road into Minehead is quiet, the weather keeping most people indoors. ‘Sirocco, you seem like an intelligent woman,’ Maggie says. ‘Why are you spending time with these people? Why are you fixating on a man who is likely to spend the rest of his life in prison? And, please, don’t give me any soulmate nonsense. Did you even know Hamish before he was arrested?’
‘We don’t choose who we love, Maggie. Have you ever been in love?’
‘You can’t love a man you’ve never met, a man you never will meet, because he’s never getting out of Parkhurst.’
‘Hamish won’t be in prison much longer. He has a plan.’
‘A plan? What is he doing, digging a tunnel?’
‘He hasn’t told me the whole plan. It’s not that he doesn’t trust me, it’s just that he can’t be too careful. One thing I do know, though. You’re part of it.’
Chapter 16
Sunday Telegraph, Sunday, 9 November 2014
WOMEN WHO LOVE MONSTERS
Fiona Vermeer asks why women fall in love with the worst possible men.
Every other Saturday, Helen Rayner gets up at four thirty in the morning to catch an early train from her home in the north-east. Her destination is Wandsworth prison, her purpose to visit her husband of two years, Stephen Rayner, known to most of us as the Stevenage Strangler.
Between 1998 and 2001, Rayner raped and strangled three women in their homes in the Stevenage area. The prosecuting barrister at his trial described his crimes as some of the most violent and sadistic murders he had ever encountered. Rayner is serving a whole life tariff, which means he is extremely unlikely, ever, to get out of prison, and yet he is a married man, with a wife who claims she loves her husband very much.
Helen started writing to Rayner eighteen months after he was sentenced. He wrote back. She was later to say, of that first letter, ‘It changed something in me. I knew this was the man I was destined to spend my life with.’
A decision, I imagine, that must have proven tricky to explain to her husband of thirteen years and her teenage sons, but explain it she must have done, because she started visiting Rayner in prison shortly after that first exchange of letters. She and her husband divorced in 2003 and she married Rayner three months later.
The marriage has never been consummated. Wandsworth does not allow conjugal visits and the couple have never been alone. On the face of it, it is difficult to see what she’s gained in return for such a cataclysmic life change. Helen’s two sons are estranged from their mother, many of her family and former friends no longer want anything to do with her. The marriage has put Helen’s life on hold. It is likely to remain so for many years to come.
Helen is by no means unique. It is believed that several hundred convicted killers in British prisons are married to women whom they’ve met since they were sent to prison. A far greater number than this will be in long-term, romantic relationships. In the United States the number is far higher.
Death-row romances are relatively common in the US, where the threat of an imminent execution brings even more glamour and excitement to a prison relationship. In spite of their horrific, murderous rampages, both Richard Ramirez and Ted Bundy attracted gangs of admiring groupies right up to the time of their deaths.
Tempting though it might be to dismiss these women as poorly educated and easily impressed, the evidence might suggest otherwise. Convicted prisoners have married their lawyers, their psychiatrists, police officers and prison guards. Women whom, you would think, should know better.
It isn’t hard to understand the appeal of a relationship to a man serving time. A wife, or long-term girlfriend, will be an advocate for his cause, driving forward any appeal process. A steady relationship, and its accompanying permanent address, is considered a big advantage when the possibility of parole comes up. A regular visitor will bring money, food and other desirables. Letters and phone calls provide a much-needed break from the monotony of prison life. A prisoner with a woman, especially a good-looking one, gains automatic status within the prison, and there is always the erotic frisson of stolen sexual encounters during visits.
How though, does one explain the appeal for the woman? Why would any woman commit emotionally, and legally, to a man with whom she cannot possibly build a future? Why should she dedicate herself to a man who will never fall asleep beside her, will never be there at Christmas and holidays, who cannot give her children? Esteemed psychologist Emma Barton explains it as the modern equivalent of medieval courtly love. ‘Courtly love isn’t real love,’ she says. ‘It’s a romantic ideal. The perfect suitor adores his lady, gives her unconditional love and devotion, and expects nothing in return.’
This absence of expectation appears to be the key. A woman need not cook, wash or clean for a man in prison. He won’t fart in bed, roll home drunk in the early hours or cheat on her. He’ll never mistreat her, because the guards won’t let him close enough. She doesn’t have sex, but she has sexual tension in abundance and, for many women, it is the thrill of expectation, rather than the act itself, which is so very delicious. Desire is never replaced by duty-sex.
The particular case of Hamish Wolfe, recently convicted serial killer, serves a different need, according to Barton. ‘Wolfe is the ultimate bad-boy celebrity,’ she says. ‘The hordes of teenage girls and young women who allegedly send him love letters and explicit photographs are succumbing to the age-old teenage need to rebel with the unsuitable boyfriend. Girls who dote on Hamish can shock their parents in the knowledge that, barring a breakout at Parkhurst, they are perfectly safe. Older women who fall for his charms see the essential evil in him as a vulnerability. He’s broken; they can fix him.’
Unrealistic narcissism lies at the heart of a woman’s relationship with an evil man. It matters not how many others he’s mistreated; in her twisted mind, she will be different.
Sue Van Morke doubts that a longing for a lost romantic ideal can entirely explain the fascination of killers. For her, the motivation is often much darker. In her book, Darkest Love, she argues that many of these women are addicted to violence. She writes: ‘… many prison brides have a history of violent relationships. Becoming involved with a convicted killer allows them to feed this addiction, while remaining relatively safe.’
Association with a notorious killer can bring a twisted sort of status to women with low self-esteem. A man who kills is powerful. By becoming his woman, the female in question is absorbing some of this power.
Which rather begs the next question: How innocent are these women themselves? A hybristophiliac is someone who is sexually excited by violent outrages performed on others. Some of the women drawn to violent men may not just be passive observers. They may be offenders themselves, or potential offenders.
Like attracts like, says Van Morke. ‘You show me a woman attracted to a violent man, I’ll show you someone wi
th a potential for violence as great. These women are to be treated with extreme caution. Possibly avoided altogether.’
(Maggie Rose: case file 00357/4 Hamish Wolfe)
Chapter 17
PETE SITS AT the mullioned window that chills the room down faster than the open door of a freezer might. The heavy-lined curtains keep out a lot of the cold but for some reason, tonight, he wants to look out at the night. He is keeping one eye on his phone, trying to pluck up courage to make the call he’s been planning all day. He dials.
‘Maggie Rose.’
Poor reception. ‘How was it?’ he asks.
‘How was what?’
He can barely hear her. He presses the receiver closer to his ear. ‘Your first encounter with the Wolfe Pack.’
‘What, you have a trace on me now?’
‘Course not,’ he says, although he has. He had a patrol car sit just down the road from the caravan park with instructions to let him know when Maggie drove her car out of it. ‘I just figured you wouldn’t be able to resist. So, go on, how was it?’
She gives a soft laugh. ‘They’re all completely bonkers. But you knew that, didn’t you?’
‘Tried to warn you.’
‘I’ve dealt with worse. Actually, there were a couple of things that came up. Have you got a minute?’
‘Sorry, you’re breaking up. Say that again.’
‘I need to ask you something. Perhaps I can call you when I get home?’
‘I can barely hear a word. What are you up to? Have you eaten yet?’
A second of silence. ‘Are you asking me out?’
‘I live above the Crown in the square in Wells. I’m about to go down and get some dinner. Why don’t you come and join me?’
‘Reception seems to have improved, have you noticed?’
‘You’re probably on top of a hill. You’ll lose it again in a minute. They do a very good fish pie. And great burgers. Also, an early turkey dinner with all the trimmings if you’re up for it.’
‘What if I’m vegetarian?’
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