Daisy in Chains

by Sharon Bolton

  At about the time he was having one last cigarette (the pub didn’t allow him to smoke indoors) the dark figure had completed an entire circuit of the house and Mrs Hubble had assumed it was probably Maggie herself. The arrival of Maggie’s car twenty minutes later had convinced her otherwise, but she hadn’t done anything about it.

  Only at two in the morning, when all the lights had suddenly gone on in Maggie’s house, waking Mrs Hubble up, because she was a light sleeper and her bedroom faced the road, did she think to call the police. She reported seeing someone dressed in dark clothes slipping away down the street.

  The attending constable had spoken to Maggie on the front doorstep. She’d assured him that nothing had disturbed her, and that all the doors were locked and bolted. She declined his offer to come in and look around but had promised to double-check everything herself before going back to bed. The officer had wished her goodnight, taken a brief look around outside, and driven away.

  Pete walks past the gate and up the drive. The back garden is still in the grip of a hard frost. There are lots of tall, thick shrubs, box hedging, misshapen yew trees. Lots of hiding places. Even in daylight.

  She appears a few seconds after he’s knocked on the back door. Slim blue jeans, those big, fluffy slippers, an oversized, knitted sweater, white with black snowflakes. No make-up. Hair in a high ponytail, eyes bluer than he’s seen them yet. Also a bit damp, and pink around the edges.

  ‘I was wondering when you’d show up,’ she tells him, as she heads inside.

  Pete tugs off his coat and hangs it over the back of the first chair he comes to in the kitchen. ‘Are you spending time with me to pump me about the Wolfe case?’ he asks.

  She practically springs into her usual chair. ‘You make it sound like we’re dating. We had dinner. I paid for my own food.’

  ‘You insisted.’

  ‘We’re not dating.’

  ‘What happened here last night?’

  ‘Which are you worried about – me or your career?’

  He leans against the table. He’s not ready to sit down yet. He doesn’t want to look relaxed. ‘You. My career can look after itself.’

  She blinks. ‘And I can’t?’

  ‘What happened? And do I have to make my own coffee? It’s frigging freezing out.’

  She glares, but gets up anyway, crossing to the kettle and filling it. ‘My neighbour, who has form when it comes to calling the police out unnecessarily, had a bad dream, saw my lights on and was on the phone before she’d woken up properly. I imagine she feels silly right now. Or maybe not; people have a remarkable ability for self-justification.’

  ‘You were up at two in the morning?’

  ‘Often. I don’t sleep well.’

  The smell of roast coffee beans fills the room.

  ‘Anything out of the ordinary that you saw?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Anything disturbed? Missing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Anything left behind?’

  Blue eyes narrow. ‘Like what?’

  He turns to the bookshelf behind her chair that mainly holds cookery and gardening books. ‘Like an origami rose, for example?’ He points to the small, paper rose he’d spotted the moment he walked in. ‘That thing’s got Wolfe written all over it.’

  She turns her back on him, completely forgetting he can see her reflection in the window. ‘Now you’re being fanciful.’

  ‘I’ve seen him make them. He even made me one once. Told me it was a pansy.’

  ‘Maybe I made it myself.’

  ‘Fine.’ By the side of her chair is a notepad. ‘May I?’ Without waiting for permission, he tears out a page. She turns at the sound. He holds it out. ‘Make me a pansy.’

  She doesn’t move.

  ‘Daffodil? Tulip? Something simple?’

  She turns her back again. When she picks up both mugs her hands are shaking. He says nothing but, using a pen, he pushes the paper rose around on the shelf to look at it properly. Pink. Perfectly formed. A little creased, where it might have been squeezed in someone’s pocket. A smear of dirt on one of the petals.

  A rose. For Maggie Rose.

  ‘The rose was in my kitchen this morning,’ she says. ‘I’d already received one via his mother, so obviously I thought of him when I found this.’

  He waits.

  ‘I was working last night, after I got back. I thought I heard someone come in. I hadn’t locked the back door at that point.’

  ‘Maggie, if you’re going to associate with—’

  ‘I know, I know. I searched the house, pretty freaked out, I don’t mind admitting, but there was no one here. I locked the door and went to bed. It was probably some time after midnight, not as late as 1 a.m.’

  ‘Mrs Nosy across the road called the police at 2 a.m.,’ Pete says. ‘Claiming to have seen someone leaving your garden.’

  ‘She may well have done. Something woke me up then and I noticed the security lights were on. I told the officer who knocked on the door that I was fine, but first thing this morning I noticed something.’

  ‘The rose?’

  Her eyes go briefly to the rose then back to him. ‘No. I noticed that the chairs around this table weren’t pushed right under. They always are, every time I leave the room. They were last night before I went to bed. This morning they’d been moved. And the back door was unlocked.’

  Pete looks at the back door, then back at the table as though measuring the distance. ‘So where was the rose?’

  She bends down, indicating that he should do the same. They face each other beneath the table. ‘This is going to look weird,’ she warns him, before squeezing herself into the narrow space between the tabletop and the chair seats. Pushed together, the seats form a platform. She lies on it, curled in a foetal position, looking at him.

  ‘I think I’m supposed to turn my back and count to ten first,’ he says.

  ‘This is where he hid. This is where he was while I was searching the house. I might have glanced under the table. I didn’t look here. He came in, while I was still working and hid here. Sometime later, probably at around 2 a.m. when Mrs Hubble claims to have seen someone, he left the house.’

  She pushes herself backwards, drops to the floor and stands up again. The exertion has made her face pinker than normal. ‘The rose was on the floor underneath one of the chairs,’ she says.

  He gives an audible sigh of annoyance. ‘Why am I only hearing this now?’

  ‘It’s a paper rose, Pete, and I need the police to take me seriously. It’s difficult enough persuading you guys to cooperate as it is. I’m sure you’d love to be able to write me off as a loon.’

  Well, she has a point. ‘Got a freezer bag?’

  She brings him the bag, he uses it to pick up and contain the rose. When it’s safely in his pocket, he asks her: ‘Maggie, are you telling me everything?’

  Chapter 24

  Email

  From: Denise Prince, consulting psychiatrist

  To: HM Director of Public Prosecutions, FAO Stephen Bachelor

  Cc: DC Pete Weston, Avon and Somerset Police

  Date: 12.6.2014

  I regret that, following my recent meeting with Hamish Wolfe at Wandsworth Prison, where he is currently being held on remand, I am unable to proceed further with this assignment.

  I have prepared no report. The exchange between us, such as it was, simply didn’t lend itself to any formal record.

  If I might be allowed a recommendation: any further attempt to draw a psychiatric profile of Hamish Wolfe should probably be attempted by a man.

  PROPERTY OF AVON AND SOMERSET POLICE. Ref: 544/45.2 Hamish Wolfe.

  Chapter 25

  THE A39 IS BLOCKED by a white van that has skidded on ice and overturned and Pete has to take the back road past the Avalon Marshes. The day has been darkening since he left Maggie’s house, the clouds falling lower, fooling the wildlife that dusk is coming sooner than usual. As Pete nears the reed beds where
hundreds of thousands of starlings bed down for the night, a dense cloud looms in the sky ahead of him. Darker than the snow clouds, its particles dancing like a giant dust storm, this is a Hitchcockian scene of beautiful menace. The daily murmuration of the starlings.

  ‘Has she told you everything, do you think?’ Latimer’s voice over the phone startles him. For a second, Pete had forgotten he’d just called his boss.

  ‘Hard to know for sure. She wasn’t keen on me looking round. I think she’s got someone else living there and doesn’t want to admit it, for some reason.’

  The dark cloud shoots up high above him and Pete half expects the heavens to open up and admit the river of birds.

  Latimer says, ‘What’s happening about the intruder last night?’

  ‘Well, that’s another thing. She admitted it’s not the first time someone’s been on her property at night. She saw someone hanging around a few nights ago. Presumably that time, they couldn’t get in.’

  ‘Well, she works with some dodgy people. If you play with fire…’

  ‘I’ve arranged for the crime scene team to stop by, but a trespass with nothing stolen isn’t a high priority. Maggie promised me she’d change the locks today and be extra careful about security in future.’

  ‘So, she’s going to go and see him, you think? Wolfe, I’m talking about now.’

  ‘She is. She seems to think that, if she meets him once, finds nothing to even get the ball rolling, then that will be the end of it. She’ll have done all his little support team can ask for and they’ll leave her alone.’

  ‘They don’t just want her to meet him, though,’ Latimer says, ‘they want her to get him out of prison.’

  The road straightens and Pete is able to pick up some speed. ‘As she says herself, Wolfe hasn’t asked her to take his case. She’s only had one letter from him, and all he did in that was thank her for saving his dog.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Long story. Look, you’re getting very faint. Ley lines must be getting in the way. I’ll see you later.’

  Chapter 26

  PSYCHIATRIC REPORT INTO HAMISH WOLFE

  PREPARED BY RICHARD RIDELL

  Introduction

  I was appointed to carry out a psychiatric assessment on Hamish Wolfe in August 2014, some three weeks before his trial was due to start. To say I felt a little underprepared would be an understatement – I’d barely had a chance to read the case file – but I had confidence in my ability to judge whether or not Hamish Wolfe was fit to stand trial.

  Appearance and demeanour

  Having heard a great deal about Hamish Wolfe’s good looks, I was curious to see if the man in real life lived up to the legend that was rapidly growing up around him in the traditional and social media. My first impression was that being remanded in custody for several months hasn’t improved his appearance. He is a tall man, but he had the look of someone who’d lost a lot of weight, quite quickly. His skin had a pallor that would have concerned me, had I been his GP; his eyes were bloodshot and his hands were showing a propensity to shake when he wasn’t actively controlling them. There was a swelling under his right eye and around his mouth, and he moved very carefully, as though in some pain.

  I began, as is customary, by explaining the parameters and purpose of the interview. He made no verbal response, but immediately began work on his new origami shape (I’d been prepared for this by reading Dr Okonjo’s report). Again following the normal practice, I began by asking him questions about his family situation and early years. Much to my surprise (I was mentally preparing myself for the same silent treatment that Dr Okonjo had been subjected to) he spoke immediately, if not courteously. He told me that I could acquire all the information I needed from the files and that he had no intention of talking about his childhood.

  (At this point, I’d like to borrow a trick from Dr Okonjo and insert an extract of the transcript.)

  Start of transcript:

  HAMISH WOLFE: I’d like you to apologize to Dr Okonjo for me, would you mind doing that?

  DR RIDELL: Of course. But might I ask why you feel the need to apologize to Dr Okonjo?

  HAMISH WOLFE: I was very rude to her. She didn’t deserve that. Tell her I regret it, please.

  DR RIDELL: Why do you think you were rude to her?

  HAMISH WOLFE: I was angry. I took it out on her. I shouldn’t have done.

  DR RIDELL: Why were you angry?

  HAMISH WOLFE: Have a look at my situation, Dick. I’m sure you can work it out.

  (For the record, I had not given Hamish Wolfe permission to address me by my Christian name, nor a derivative of it, but I chose to let that pass.)

  DR RIDELL: Do you often lash out, verbally, when you’re angry?

  HAMISH WOLFE: Don’t we all?

  DR RIDELL: Have you ever hurt someone physically, when you’ve been angry?

  HAMISH WOLFE: (grinning) How do you think I got these bruises?

  DR RIDELL: What makes you angry?

  HAMISH WOLFE: Twats. Stupid questions.

  DR RIDELL: Are you angry now?

  HAMISH WOLFE: (lifting his wrists to show me the chains tethering him to the table) Don’t worry, Dick. I can’t reach you from here. And the muppets outside will come charging in if I so much as flutter my eyelashes too vigorously.

  DR RIDELL: What is that you’re making? (By this time, the origami figure was taking shape, but it was difficult to see what it was supposed to depict.)

  HAMISH WOLFE: A weasel.

  DR RIDELL: Have you ever hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it?

  HAMISH WOLFE: Yes.

  (I think it worth pointing out that Wolfe’s demeanour changed at this point. I saw what appeared to be genuine regret on his face.)

  DR RIDELL: Can you tell me about it?

  HAMISH WOLFE: No.

  DR RIDELL: How do you feel when people ask you about the four victims? Do you think they deserve what happened to them?

  HAMISH WOLFE: Apart from the fact that they led to my being here, I don’t think about them at all. They don’t come on to my radar screen.

  DR RIDELL: You’re saying you don’t think of them as people?

  HAMISH WOLFE: I’m saying I only think of them in terms of how they affect me. And, yes, I do appreciate that I’ve just described a classic symptom of psychopathy.

  DR RIDELL: Would you describe yourself as a psychopath?

  HAMISH WOLFE: Dick, I’m going to save you some time. I am not, at this moment in time, nor have I ever in the past, suffered from any form of mental illness. I’m sure you’ve checked my medical records already. If you haven’t, fucking shame on you, you don’t deserve the grossly overinflated fee that you guys charge for the pieces of piss you call psychiatric assessments. Nor am I psychotic. I don’t hear voices. There is no chip in my head. I have never been abducted by aliens. I was not sexually abused as a child, nor did I torture small animals. I fully understand the concepts of right and wrong and know only too well that if I fuck around with the law of the land, the law of the land is likely to jump up and bite me on the arse. Now, take your weasel, and fuck off out of here.

  End of transcript.

  Conclusion

  It would be dishonest of me to say that I was satisfied with the outcome of my interview with Hamish Wolfe. I found him uncooperative, angry and aggressive. What I can say with some confidence is that he understands well the concept of being fit to stand trial and has, in his own words, declared himself to be so. I have nothing to add.

  PROPERTY OF AVON AND SOMERSET POLICE. Ref: 544/45.2 Hamish Wolfe.

  Chapter 27

  IT IS STILL ONLY the second week in December and yet cell 43, corridor 2, H wing of Parkhurst Prison is as festive as the Christmas aisle in Poundland, and every bit as tacky. Paper chains run from the central light fitting to the four corners of the room and drape the window bars like a climbing vine. More chains festoon the length of the two bunks and paper baubles dangle from the ceiling. A man called Phil James is p
erched in the corner, folding and sticking narrow strips of red and green paper.

  ‘OK, Mr Sahid.’ Wolfe is on his feet, looking down at the Pakistani man on his bed. ‘I need to have a look at your backside.’

  The whites of Sahid’s eyes have turned yellow, his skin has the look of ageing leather. He is in his mid fifties, could be a decade older. He has been in this place for five years. He is unlikely, ever, to leave.

  ‘You better not try anything.’ Sahid doesn’t move. His two henchmen, their bodies as solid as the door they’re guarding, don’t take their eyes off him for a second.

  ‘I’ll try to restrain myself.’ Wolfe takes the single step that will bring him to the washbasin and soaps his hands. When he turns back, Sahid hasn’t moved.

  ‘It’s entirely up to you, Mr Sahid. I’m sure you’ll get an appointment with Dr Evans next week.’

  ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘I don’t speculate, Mr S., I diagnose. I’ve got others waiting if you’ve changed your mind. How many out there, Phil?’

  Wolfe’s cellmate looks up from his chain-making. ‘Seven, last time I checked, Doc. Kids on C wing have been spliff-banging again.’

  Wolfe shakes his head. ‘Give me strength.’ Spliff-banging is the latest craze to hit the prison. Youngsters film themselves punching each other, in a sick, ritualistic fashion, with the violence tolerated because it will be rewarded later by cannabis. They bring the broken noses, the split lips, to Wolfe to fix up.

  ‘If you’re not going to show me your bottom, Mr S., I’ll wish you good morning. When you see Dr Evans, tell him I’m not happy about the yellowing in your scleras. If you were a drinker, I’d worry about liver damage. As it is, gallstones would be my best guess.’

  These daily surgeries annoy the hell out of the prison doctor.

  The small, slim man, who is probably the most powerful and feared in Parkhurst Prison, glares. ‘No one comes in.’ He barks the order at his bodyguards, who turn their backs and swell to fill the entire doorway.

  Phil turns round too – he has a healthy respect for Sahid and his gang of ‘Muslim Boys’ – to look out of the small window at the leaden greyness beyond. Wolfe, caught off guard, does the same and feels the sharp stab of panic that hits him every time he sees the sky.