Those dark days are behind her now. Tom’s eyes seldom leave his beautiful fiancée. The future of this young family looks assured.
(Maggie Rose: case file 062/118 Hamish Wolfe)
Chapter 41
MAGGIE ESTIMATES it will take Hamish two minutes to read the article. He looks up after several seconds.
‘Fourteen women and two gay blokes sent me this cutting,’ he says. ‘One woman sends me every clip on Claire and Flannigan that she can find.’
‘So how do you feel about it?’
He shrugs. ‘Glad she’s OK. Not sure about the future being assured business. I met that twat. He must have had a fistful of coke up his nose.’
‘Explain. Not about Tom Flannigan taking cocaine. About why you can be so relaxed about the woman you planned to marry moving on. About her not standing by you.’
His eyebrows almost meet in an incredulous frown. ‘It never occurred to me that she would. She came to visit me once, on remand. You’d have thought she was being asked to walk through Belsen. Back when it was open for business.’
‘Her fiancé was in prison. Of course she found it hard.’
He actually laughs. ‘Oh, trust me, the wrongly accused fiancé she could have dealt with. Just as long as she had fast-track through the queues, her own personal security and a private lounge to meet me in. It was mingling with the great unwashed that Claire couldn’t handle.’
‘And this was the woman you were going to spend your life with?’
He sighs, as though having to explain something to a difficult child. ‘Maggie, men get married for all sorts of reasons, not always good ones. Claire was the one pushing. And my mum was desperate for grandkids. Granddaughters in particular.’
‘You got engaged to please your mother?’
The laughter is gone now. ‘It really didn’t matter how many people told me Sophie’s death wasn’t my fault. I was there. I was at the top when she fell. Maybe I felt grandkids were my way of making amends. Possibly they would have been. A little Sophie? Yeah, that would have been nice.’
She pauses to take stock. Five questions left. He has the same.
‘Could you kill someone?’ she asks him.
His face clouds, as though a grim memory is passing through his head. ‘I probably will if I spend much longer in this place. So, yes.’
There is something very dark behind his eyes now, but whether memory or prediction, it is impossible to tell.
‘What’s your favourite colour?’ he asks her.
‘White,’ she says, then backtracks. ‘No, I mean blue. Of course I mean blue. What else would it be, I mean, look at me.’ She lifts the ends of her hair.
The corner of his mouth twitches. ‘White isn’t even a colour.’
‘No, it isn’t. Where is Zoe Sykes?’
‘I have no idea. Are your parents still alive?’
‘I lost my mother over a decade ago,’ she says. ‘My father five years after that.’
‘Any close family? Siblings? Secret husband?’
‘No, to all three. What happened to Daisy Baron?’
She sees a start of surprise in his face, but he recovers quickly. ‘I don’t know. She vanished towards the end of the Trinity term.’
‘What was she to you?’
‘Fellow student. Friend. Girlfriend, for much of that first year.’
‘Was her leaving something to do with you?’
His eyes narrow. ‘I never got a chance to ask her.’
Around them, people are getting up and saying goodbye. She waits for Hamish to say something more. He doesn’t.
She is the only visitor still seated. The rest are heading for the door. ‘People believe Daisy is dead. That she was your first victim. Was she?’
‘You’ve had your ten questions, Maggie. More than.’
She waits. He takes a moment before replying. ‘She wasn’t. And I really hope she isn’t. Something warm will slip out of my world if I lose the possibility of ever seeing Daisy again.’
‘Time please, miss. Come on, Hamish, you know the rules.’
They ignore the guard. ‘What do you regret most?’ she asks him.
He grins as she gets to her feet. ‘Getting caught,’ he tells her.
Chapter 42
HMP Isle of Wight – Parkhurst
Clissold Road
Newport
Thursday, 15 December 2015
Dear Maggie,
When I said my biggest regret was getting caught, I wasn’t talking about Detective Sergeant Pete Weston. All else being equal, that bozo is no match for me.
I was talking about Daisy.!
Good to see you again today. If you request a legal visit, you can come again as soon as you like.
Best wishes,
Hamish
Chapter 43
IN ONE OF THE POORER ESTATES in the Bristol area, the Sykes’s family home is neat and orderly. The single row of paving stones leading to the front door has been kept clean of winter slime. The patch of brown lawn is short. The bins stand to attention on one side of the door. Just behind the still-white net curtains, Maggie can see a row of china ornaments: female figures, in period costume; six of them, each perfectly spaced, each facing at exactly the same angle into the room within.
The sound of her knocking has barely time to fade before the front door opens. Brenda stands facing her. ‘When’s it going to be? When’s he going to show us where Zoe is?’
‘Brenda, I really don’t think you should get your hopes up. Hamish is still claiming he didn’t kill Zoe.’
She follows the older woman to the kitchen. It is a small room, dated, but immaculately tidy.
‘He said, though. He said if you went to see him, he’d show us. Kimberly, make Miss Rose a cup of tea.’
‘I’m afraid he didn’t. That letter was from his mother.’
The muscles around Brenda’s mouth twitch. ‘Effing cow. Kim, use the PG Tips, not that cheap stuff from Lidl. And make sure the cups are clean.’
Maggie looks in a corner of the room to see a thin girl intent upon her mobile phone. Her long fair hair hides her face.
Maggie turns back to the mother. ‘Brenda, do you think Zoe could have had another boyfriend?’
When Brenda shakes her head, she purses up her mouth and chin and the lines of a habitual smoker fan out from her lips like a child’s drawing of a sun. ‘I’d have known. We didn’t have no secrets. Did he tell you anything? About what he did to her? Where he took her? Kim! I won’t tell you again.’
Making no sound, moving so slowly that Maggie can almost imagine the air doesn’t move around her, Kimberly gets up from her chair and crosses to the sink. Her shape is still the skinny, angular one of a child. Her clothes are childish too: plain jeans, a fleece sweatshirt.
‘Zoe’s actions on that last night suggest she was planning to meet someone,’ says Maggie.
‘Do you think they might let me have her boot back? Kim, sniff that milk before you use it, make sure it’s fresh.’
‘I’m sorry, what did you just say?’
‘Her boot. The red cowboy boot, what she were wearing when she was taken. They’ve never let me have it back.’
The cowboy boot, found on the roadside in the gorge, with bloodstains that were matched to Zoe. Her mother wants it back, as though her pain isn’t sharp enough without a tangible reminder of what her daughter went through.
‘I imagine it will be classed as evidence. The police probably need to keep it.’
‘She loved them boots. They were her favourites. She always wore them. They were a present from me. Cost a bloody fortune. I’d really like it back.’
A once expensive, now worthless, item. It is odd, the things that grieving people obsess over. On the kitchen counter, a mobile phone starts ringing. Brenda turns away and reaches for it.
‘Yeah, oh, hiya, Mand, all right?’ As though she’s forgotten Maggie, she wanders out into the hallway just as the teenager turns round, a mug in each hand. She has the trac
e of an old bruise on her right cheek, just below her eye. Her hands are shaking.
‘I put sugar in.’ She stares at Maggie with wide, pale grey eyes.
‘Thank you.’
‘Not everyone takes sugar. Mum and me both do. It’s habit. I can make you another cup.’
‘It’s fine, thank you. I can drink it with or without sugar.’
Kimberly reaches out, spilling some of the tea on her hand. She puts both mugs down clumsily and turns back to the sink.
‘Cold water,’ says Maggie, unnecessarily. The girl is already holding her scalded hand beneath the tap. ‘It would be really useful for me to see Zoe’s bedroom. Would you mind showing me?’
The girl’s shoulders stiffen. ‘You want to see Zoe’s room,’ she says to the kitchen window.
In the hallway, conversation stops. The door bursts open again and Kimberly flinches.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Brenda’s eyes drop to the mugs on the table. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, why do you make such a mess all the time?’
‘Actually that was me,’ Maggie says. ‘I wasn’t expecting the mugs to be quite so hot. Let me clean it up.’
‘Kim will do it.’ Brenda glares at the girl, who is staring down into the sink.
‘What did you want to ask me?’
‘Huh?’
‘You said you wanted to ask me something. Just now, when you came back into the room.’
Reminded, Brenda stands square on to Maggie. ‘Why are you here? If you’re going to be that animal’s frigging lawyer, what do you want with me?’
‘Hamish Wolfe isn’t my client and may never be. For what it’s worth, I’m still inclined to think he’s guilty. I’m here because there are details about Zoe’s disappearance that don’t make a lot of sense to me. If you help, I promise to try one more time to get him to tell us where Zoe is.’
‘What if he doesn’t know?’ says Kimberly.
Brenda’s head shoots round to her daughter. ‘What the hell are you talking about? Course he knows.’
Kimberly has a way of drooping, of dropping her head so that her hair falls and covers her face, of letting her shoulders slump so that she seems diminished.
Maggie fakes a loud cough. ‘Brenda, can I please see Zoe’s room? Does it still have all her things in it? And if you have any family photographs, that would be useful too. Perhaps Kimberly could show me?’
Brenda glances dismissively at her daughter. ‘I’ll take you.’
The room Zoe shared with her sister is a double bedroom, with twin beds. One of them unmade but recently slept in, the other devoid of linen, just a bare mattress.
‘Kim!’ The shout makes Maggie jump. ‘Get up here and make your bed. What have I told you?’
Although shared by a teenager and her twenty-something sister, the room has a childish feel to it. The furniture is white MDF, the sort you might see adorned with Hello Kitty and One Direction posters in young girls’ bedrooms. The pink curtains have faded from years of sunlight. There is a photograph on the dressing table of Brenda and three young women, two of them Kimberly and Zoe. From their formal clothes, Maggie guesses it was taken at a family wedding. Zoe, the largest of the three young women, has been pushed slightly to the back of the group. Another photograph of the same three girls stands on the window ledge. This one shows them on a park bench. Kimberly and the oldest girl sit on the bench. Zoe leans over them from behind it. Kimberly and the older girl look very similar.
In the corner of the room is a small fibre-optic Christmas tree. It is the first decoration that Maggie has seen in the house.
‘What did you want to see?’ Brenda asks.
‘I just want to get a feel for her. Do you still have her clothes?’
‘Of course.’ Brenda nods towards the built-in wardrobes along one wall.
‘May I?’ Maggie slides the door to one side. The wardrobe smells like the back room of a second-hand shop but the clothes are neatly hung. On the far left of the rail hang several outfits that look new. Gently, conscious of Brenda’s barely tolerant stare on her shoulders, Maggie pulls them towards her. Several still have labels attached. She pulls out a red dress. Size 14. She moves quickly to the middle of the rail. The rest of the clothes are sizes 16 and 18.
Behind her, Brenda breathes out an impatient sigh.
‘Are these Kimberly’s?’ It seems unlikely. No way is Kimberly a size 14.
‘They were Zoe’s. She was on a diet. I always think it’s good to have an incentive.’
Several pairs of shoes, boots and trainers sit neatly on the carpeted floor of the wardrobe. Maggie crouches.
‘I bought her those cowboy boots. They were a birthday present. I don’t want it back for myself, it wouldn’t fit me, or Kimberly, and what good would one boot be anyway? She just wore them so much. Loved them, really. It’s not right it’s just stashed away in a police cupboard somewhere.’
‘I’ll mention it to DS Weston. It’s possible it’s just been forgotten about.’
Maggie picks up a court shoe, in purple patent leather. Size six. She upturns a trainer. Size six and a half. She stands, closing the door behind her and notices that Kimberly has appeared in the doorway.
‘Do you have another daughter, Brenda?’ She looks towards the wedding photograph on the dressing table. There had been no mention of a third child in any of the police reports and yet the family resemblance is strong. ‘An older girl?’
‘That’s Stacey. She lives in Aberdeen. Works for an insurance firm up there.’
‘Thank you. I won’t take up any more of your time.’
* * *
The phone rings as Maggie is sitting in her car outside the Sykes’s home. It is Pete.
‘I’ve done a bit of digging on this Sirocco Silverwood,’ he says, as she tucks away the photographs she’s been studying for several minutes. ‘Real name Sarah Smith. Bright lady, once upon a time, dropped out of Dundee University in her second year. Studying English literature. Significantly, she was working in Magaluf for nearly nine months in the run-up to Wolfe’s arrest. The chances of her having met him are slim.’
‘So I can just write her off as another fruitcake obsessive?’
‘Looks like it. So what are you up to? Anywhere close to the station? Fancy a coffee? Lunch?’
‘I’m miles away. Thanks, Pete, I’ll be in touch.’
Chapter 44
From the office of
MAGGIE ROSE
The Rectory, Norton Stown, Somerset
Wednesday, 16 December 2015
Dear Hamish,
OK, I’ll admit that I’m intrigued. Not by you – all you’ve given me are impossible-to-prove conspiracy theories – but there are discrepancies surrounding your case and one of them is Zoe Sykes.
I visited her family home today. It was interesting.
Let’s be clear, I am making no promises. For what it’s worth, I still believe you to be guilty. I’m just curious to dig a little deeper. If you can go along with that, I’ll try to clear my diary so that I can visit you on Friday.
Best wishes,
Maggie
Chapter 45
Email
From: Anne Louise Moorcroft, Ellipsis Literary Agency
To: Maggie Rose
Date: 17.12.2015
Subject: Hamish Wolfe
Dear Maggie,
I’ve had over a dozen emails and phone calls from journalists wanting to know if Hamish Wolfe is now your client. They’ve all requested interviews, or failing that a comment at least. And social media’s going nuts.
Anything you can share?
Anne Louise
From: Maggie Rose
To: Anne Louise Moorcroft, Ellipsis Literary Agency
Date: 17.12.2015
Subject: Hamish Wolfe
Dear Anne Louise,
He is not my client, although I am having my third meeting with him tomorrow and that could change. I’ll give you the nod and you can send out the usual press statement.
&nb
sp; Maggie
Chapter 46
DAYLIGHT DOES NO FAVOURS for the Grey Mare at Bishopstone. It is a night-time pub, meant for live bands and overflowing pint glasses, for cigarette smoke creeping in from the smokers’ area out back. It is a pub that needs crowds pressed together, shouting into each other’s ears, coughing with the effort of making any audible sound. It is a pub for sports, on the huge wide-screen TV, for noise, for broken glass, for soon-forgotten fights in the doorways and furtive shags in the ladies’ loo. It is a pub where drugs are sold, if you’re lucky, dropped into an unguarded drink if you aren’t. It is a pub where smart women take their mai tais into the toilets with them.
In the daylight, every stain on the paisley patterned carpet is visible, and tangible. Every surface seems covered with a thin film of grime. With eight days to go before Christmas, even the festive decorations look shop-soiled.
Steve Lampton leads the way from the bar, carrying his own drink, and Maggie’s. He insisted on paying for them. He always does.
‘I’m loving your local.’ Maggie brushes crisp crumbs off the fake Tudor chair seat and sits, thinking of yet another dry-cleaning bill.
He grins and she sees his teeth have improved since the last time they met. He’s had them professionally cleaned and whitened, private dentistry he can now afford, making up for years of prison neglect.
‘It’s a bit of a dive,’ he admits. ‘But I only have an hour off work and I can’t lose my bonus, not this time of year.’
Since his release in 2007, Lampton has been forced to take one temporary contract after another. His jobs usually only last until one of his co-workers finds out who he is.
‘You actually his lawyer, then? That Wolfe bloke?’ Steve pulls out a chair and sits before gulping down most of his double Scotch. He always drinks quickly and, whilst he never really shows it in other ways, Maggie wonders if she makes him nervous.
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