So – wait for it – I’m going to track down Daisy Baron, Wolfe’s girlfriend from college. I’m banking on her not giving up on her medical degree completely, so I’ve been checking medical school admissions in 1997 and 1998. Got a couple of possibles, both up north.
I’m sure it goes without saying I’m not exactly expecting to find a shallow grave with a bag of old bones in it, but it would open up a whole new dimension on the case if I did, don’t you think?
Speaking of dead horses, Latimer has agreed to put some resources into finding that computer you and Wolfe are fixated on. If you send over that list you drew up, with an update on where you got with it, we might be able to help out. I still think it’s a very long shot, but you never know.
A couple of other things. I’ve spoken to Sarah Smith, aka Sirocco Silverwood. Talk about mad as a box of frogs! She denies going anywhere near your house and declined to submit fingerprints. She could have been the one to leak your personal details to Facebook but, without good reason, we can’t haul her computer off for examination. Tricky one, but we’ll keep an eye on her.
Oh, and I found the flowers by your bin. Daisies? What’s going on, Maggie? When and how did they arrive? They’re currently rotting slowly in the back of my car, just in case you go looking for them.
I’ll be in touch. Dare I say, Happy New Year?
Pete
Chapter 73
Guardian, Saturday, 13 September 2014
HAMISH WOLFE TRIAL: DAY 5
A dramatic development in the Hamish Wolfe trial yesterday saw the judge ruling the evidence of a key prosecution witness as inadmissible and instructing the jury to disregard his entire testimony. Legal experts described it as a severe blow to the prosecution’s case, as the witness had been expected to testify that Wolfe’s dangerous, predatory tendencies could be traced back over two decades.
James Laurence, 39, a GP in Rawtenstall in Lancashire, and a university contemporary of Wolfe, had been giving evidence for nearly an hour when the judge, Mr Justice Peters, intervened and called into question the relevance and reliability of everything Laurence had told the court. Under UK law, he reminded the jury, evidence presented in criminal cases must be ‘relevant, without being prejudicial, and reliable’.
‘Your testimony is based on half-remembered anecdotes and groundless rumours,’ the judge said to Laurence. ‘Your memory of the facts, by your own admission and the testimony of others, is vague and unsubstantiated. The defence has been right to call your evidence repeatedly into question. It adds nothing to the prosecution’s case, it would be dangerous to rely upon it further and I hereby instruct the jury to disregard it.’
Like Wolfe, Laurence studied medicine at Oxford and was a member, albeit on the periphery, of Wolfe’s social circle. He’d been called as a prosecution witness to give the court an insight into the character of his former friend and, in particular, Wolfe’s predilection for a certain type of female.
During questioning by the Crown prosecution barrister, Miles Richardson QC, Laurence spoke of an inner circle of five of the brightest medical students, all of them white men from professional or upper-class backgrounds, with Wolfe as their acknowledged leader. The five men, three of whom we are not permitted to name for legal reasons, studied together, socialized and, crucially, formed a secret club that was to lead, in the opinion of the police investigating team, to the death of at least one young woman.
‘I knew something had gone on that night,’ Laurence said from the witness box, referring to the death of young Oxford woman Ellie Holmes. ‘The others all clammed up, but I knew it was something very serious. When we heard that a girl had died, I knew there was more to it than we were being told.’
The judge gave it as his opinion that, although Ellie Holmes had died whilst in the company of one of Wolfe’s friends, there was no reason to challenge the Coroner’s verdict of death by misadventure, and no reason to suppose that Wolfe had been involved in any way. As such, he said, it was not relevant to the current case.
‘Eighteen years ago, the Coroner went out of his way to praise the efforts of medical student Warwick Hespe,’ Mr Justice Peters said, ‘whose vigorous efforts at resuscitation, sadly, failed to have the desired result and save Miss Holmes’s life. There is no reason to think this was anything other than the unfortunate death of a young woman following her own reckless behaviour. Most significantly, though, the prosecution have presented no evidence to link Mr Wolfe to the incident.’
Nor, the judge went on to say, did he attach any credence to the rumours of a soft-porn mail order company which, according to the prosecution, the five men had set up to sell illicitly shot videos of young women having sex.
‘There is no evidence that this business ever existed,’ he remarked. ‘It seems highly unlikely that a group of students would have found the wherewithal to set up such a company. Even its supposed name, which I will not test the court’s patience by repeating again, strikes me as highly unlikely for a group of Oxford University students. The police have several times interviewed the five men in question, including Mr Wolfe, and each has claimed to have no knowledge of it. None of the footage supposedly shot still exists. We have the testimony of no women who were filmed against their will and made into unwitting porn stars. The prosecution have not thought fit to call any of the other men whom you claim were involved.
‘Your evidence, Mr Laurence,’ the judge concluded, ‘strikes me as nothing more than envious rumour-mongering and poorly remembered tittle-tattle. Given that nearly twenty years have passed between the alleged events that you describe, and the murders that we are now dealing with, I cannot suppose them relevant in any way. Furthermore, your testimony, hostile as it is to Mr Wolfe, could be seen as unfairly prejudicial. I therefore instruct the jury to disregard your entire testimony as evidence. You may stand down.’
None of the detectives on the case were prepared to comment. The case continues on Monday.
(Maggie Rose: case file 00326/8 Hamish Wolfe)
Chapter 74
DRAFT
THE BIG, BAD WOLFE?
By Maggie Rose
CHAPTER 5, IS HE BANGED UP? OR DID HE SMARTEN UP?
One cast-iron test of whether the right man has been imprisoned bang to rights in cases of serial murder is whether or not the killings cease after conviction. Anyone daring to suggest Hamish Wolfe was wrongly convicted is met with the rapid retort that no other plus-sized young woman has been found in a Somerset cave since Wolfe’s arrest.
Maybe not. But is it equally true to say that no other women have vanished? A quick search on the site of the UK Missing Persons Bureau throws up some serious concerns.
Lynsey Osbourne, twenty-two, last seen at her bedsit in the Filton area of Bristol on 12 February 2014.
Kelsey Benson, fifteen, vanished from local authority care in Honiton, Devon in May 2013.
(NB: Actually, Benson wasn’t that big, will probably need to find an alternative)
Janice Robinson, forty-six, of Stroud, left her council house on the night of 16 September 2014 and hasn’t been seen since.
These are only three. There are others.
Of course it would be fanciful to suggest that all these women fell victim to the same killer who ended the lives of Jessie Tout, Chloe Wood and Myrtle Reid, but even the most cursory glance at the list of our missing casts serious doubt on the assurance that the killer who targets large women is no longer at liberty.
He may just have got smarter.
(Will need updating just before going to press.)
Chapter 75
THE SMALL, black-fronted establishment, just off the main road through Rawtenstall in Lancashire, is perhaps a little too cheerful in its demeanour to be a magic shop from a fairy story, but its draughts, elixirs and cordials give something of the same impression. There are tinctures, restoratives and stimulants in here that are not of the commonplace. Blackbeer and raisin? Blood beer? Sarsaparilla?
The rows of jars stacked high
on wooden shelves have colourfully intriguing contents and mysterious-sounding labels. The packets on the counter rustle with dark promise. The oak floor is highly polished, but stained in places where substances, too powerful ever to be properly cleaned away, have spilled over the years. There are three small tables, each spread with an embroidered linen cloth. This is Fitzpatrick’s, the last remaining temperance bar in England, and Maggie is being asked to choose between a rhubarb and rosehip cordial and an iron brew tonic.
‘Which do you recommend?’ she asks the jovial, grey-haired man behind the counter.
‘You look cold to me. Why don’t I warm you up a toddy?’
Conscious of the day outside getting dark and not wanting to be driving over the moors too late at night, she agrees and takes her seat opposite the man she has come to meet.
‘The Temperance movement started in Lancashire.’ His accent is Northern, his voice pitched surprisingly low for such a small, thin man. ‘Back in the nineteenth century. Suddenly, working people had more money and alcohol took off in a big way. By 1880 there was a temperance bar in every Northern town. Now, this is the only one left.’
There are red veins in James Laurence’s cheeks and eyes. His face has the saggy appearance of someone for whom bloating has been a problem in the past. He is forty years old, looks considerably older.
‘James, why do you think the judge didn’t take you seriously?’
Laurence’s hand rests on the half-pint glass of black liquid. He lifts it continually, taking minuscule sips. ‘I was stitched up in court. They made me look a fool.’
‘The defence barristers?’
A begrudged nod. ‘I mean, everyone’s a twat at university, aren’t they? They found pictures of me wasted at parties. They kept asking me how much I used to drink. Whether I took drugs. They implied I’d been out of my head all the time I was there, so how could I be relied upon? As if you can’t get a medical degree at Oxford if you have a drink problem.’
Maggie avoids looking at his hands, which she already knows have a tremor more pronounced than normal. ‘I’ve looked at the court reports,’ she says. ‘I don’t think it was so much that you were deemed unreliable, as that there was no supporting evidence. No trace of the porn business you talked about, and none of the sex tapes you described have ever been seen.’
He makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. ‘Oh, they’ve been seen all right. Just not by anyone who’s prepared to admit it.’
‘Of Hamish Wolfe’s social circle at Oxford, you were the only person called to testify against him. Any idea why?’
‘The others couldn’t shop Wolfe without dropping themselves in it. So, by default, it was my word against that of all five of them. What with that, and the defence barrister trying to discredit everything I said, I was on a hiding to nothing. In the end, the judge practically told the court I’d been lying.’
As hot, spiced steam wafts through the small room, the bartender brings a clear plastic beaker in a silver-coloured cup to the table. Maggie can smell lemon and ginger. He waits for her first sip and she gives the expected nod of approval, even though the brew tastes like something she’d take for a cold.
‘Do you think Hamish was guilty?’ she asks Laurence.
A shrug. ‘The evidence was there. And it fits with what I remember from college days. They were a nasty bunch.’
In court, James Laurence had claimed to have been one of the group. A close friend. ‘How much do you know about what they were up to? The so-called Fat Club. The porn business.’
‘Quite a lot. I was on the same floor as Chris Easton, that first year. He and I used to study together sometimes.’
‘It would really help if you could tell me what you know.’
Laurence shrugs as though it makes no difference, one way or another. ‘I think, in fairness, it started as a bit of a laugh. Hamish was keen on this girl on the course. She was a real chubster, and the other four kept on at him. You know the sort of thing: What do you see in her? Is there any room in the bed? Then Oliver Pearson decided he was going to shag a fat bird too – his words not mine – and it went from there. Turned into a sort of competition. They’d go out into Oxford town centre in the evenings, to the sort of clubs and pubs where the townies went, not the students, on the hunt for bigger women. Then Simon—’
‘Simon Doggett?’
‘Yeah, that’s him. He and Hamish were on our floor one evening, they came into the kitchen to find Chris, and Simon announced he’d videotaped his session the previous night with a girl he’d picked up. He asked who wanted to see it. So the three of them set off for Simon’s room. They said something about going to find Warwick and Oliver too.’
‘Did you go?’
His face tightens. ‘I wasn’t asked. I didn’t really come on to their radar screen, except when I could be useful. Took me a long time to see that. Anyway, a few days later, Chris needed some help setting up a hidden camera in his bedroom. He’d made a complete mess of it. Wanted me to sort it out.’
The bartender is still in the room. Maggie drops her voice. ‘Did he tell you what he was doing with the films?’
‘Nope. He was very tight-lipped.’
‘So how did you know about the business? The one that was mentioned in court?’
Now it is Laurence who is conscious of their one-man audience. He lowers his voice. ‘I needed to borrow one of Chris’s textbooks one day. He wasn’t in. I think he was in the bathroom, because his clothes were on the floor, but his computer was switched on.’
Maggie nods her head, knowing that appearing judgemental at this stage will make him clam up.
‘He was using some sort of graphics package to design labels for the videos. As soon as I saw the branding, Fat Girls Get Fucked, it all made sense. Next time he was out, I let myself into his room and looked round. There was a cardboard box under the bed, full of videotapes. More than a dozen different films. All the guys had kept their faces from the camera, but I recognized the backs of their heads, and their rooms. Warwick, Oliver, Simon, Hamish. They were all at it.’
‘How many tapes did Hamish feature in?’
‘I only saw one, but there could have been others.’
‘The girl he was with, was it the one you mentioned, the one on the course?’
He thinks for a moment, and shakes his head. ‘No. This was a blonde girl, even bigger than Daisy.’
‘Daisy?’
‘Yeah, Hamish’s girlfriend. Well, sort of. They obviously weren’t exclusive.’
‘Did any of the tapes feature Daisy?’
‘Not that I saw, but I do remember hearing the others talking about a tape with Daisy in. They described it as a bit special.’
The door opens and a rush of cold air comes in, along with a middle-aged couple. It is completely dark outside now, the lights of the town stretching up and over the moors.
‘What happened to Daisy?’ Maggie asks.
‘She disappeared. When it all kicked off.’
‘What kicked off?’
‘The business I tried to testify about. It happened one night in Hilary term. That’s between Christmas and Easter.’
‘Thank you, I know. Go on.’
‘Simon and Oliver came banging on Chris’s door. They woke me up. I went outside, asked them what was up, and they told me, “Nothing, go back to bed.”’
‘Your room was next door to Chris’s?’
‘That’s right. I couldn’t hear much of what they were saying and they left quickly, but I did hear them talking about picking up Hamish. I assumed that they were on their way to Warwick’s house.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I went back to bed. What else could I do? But next day, there were rumours going round about the police being called to Warwick’s house. That someone had died there in the night. The university kept it quiet. There was a small piece in the Oxford Mail about an unnamed girl being found dead in a Magdalen College house, but then nothing more was heard until the inq
uest.’
‘Did you ask them about it?’
‘I asked Chris. But he said they hadn’t gone to Warwick’s, and they knew nothing about what happened there. He said they’d gone to Hamish’s because he’d drunk too much and they were worried about him.’
‘Did you believe them?’
‘No. I saw Hamish that day. He didn’t look to me like he was nursing a hangover. He looked like he was shitting himself.’
‘Did you say anything to the authorities?’
‘What was I supposed to say? That three guys had gone somewhere in the night and I’d just assumed they were going to Warwick’s?’
‘So, what do you think happened?’
‘I think Warwick took a girl home with him, planning to make a video. I think something went wrong. Maybe he was trying something a bit more adventurous than normal. Maybe it wasn’t just him, maybe Oliver and Simon were involved too. Something went wrong and the girl died. The gang got together and made it look like she’d died accidentally.’
‘Not as easy as it sounds, surely?’
He gives her a pitying look. ‘They were medical students. They knew about causes of death and what post-mortem examinations look for. If nothing else, they would have stripped the room of the recording equipment, removed any signs of kinky sex. At worst, Warwick killed that girl and the others helped to cover it up. At best, they conspired to pervert the course of justice. And they got away with it.’
Laurence’s hands are shaking noticeably now.
‘You’re angry about it, aren’t you?’ she says.
‘Yeah, I’m angry. I’m angry that some people believe themselves to be a cut above the rest of us. I’m angry that the rule of law doesn’t apply to all of us equally, and I’m seriously pissed off that my word, when set against that of five upper-class, over-privileged twats, wasn’t believed.’
Daisy in Chains Page 24
