Daisy in Chains

by Sharon Bolton

  She gives him a moment. ‘Tell me about Daisy.’

  ‘What’s to tell? Nobody saw her again after that night.’

  ‘Do you think they killed Daisy too?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.’

  Chapter 76

  NEW YEAR’S EVE is arguably one of the most depressing shifts to work in a police station. The 0600–1400 hours crew had practically congaed their way out to the nearest pub when their shift ended, but the 1400–2200 bunch are having to make do with soft drinks and snacks. Halfway through the shift, the cola is warm, the crisps are soft and the team are feeling the party might have passed them by already.

  Liz comes back from the loo, makes a quick detour to her own desk and then leans over Pete’s. ‘Fifteen possibilities,’ she says, putting the file down in front of him.

  Pete reaches across and sees a printed list of industrial estates. Liz has followed Maggie’s instructions to the letter: look for modest-sized units, rented out in January 2013, due for renewal in 2018. ‘We can get round them all in the next week or so,’ she says.

  Pete nods. ‘I suspect Maggie is working on it as well. She could find it before we do. If it exists. Which I seriously doubt. Did I mention that?’

  Liz smiles, starts to walk away, then turns back again. ‘If Hamish gets out, it won’t be good for you,’ she says. ‘Not in the short term.’

  Pete wonders if he can sneak a beer out of the Asda carrier bag under his desk. The chances of a call-out at this hour on New Year’s Eve are slim, but you never know. ‘I guess at the end of the day, all we can do is the right thing,’ he tells her.

  What Liz does next is completely out of character. She bends over, and kisses him on the temple. ‘I kind of love you,’ she says.

  Christ, he needs a beer. ‘Get out of here,’ he tells her.

  Chapter 77

  HMP Isle of Wight – Parkhurst

  Clissold Road

  Newport

  Thursday, 31 December 2015

  Dear Maggie,

  The old year is groaning its last and this will be the third New Year’s Eve I’ve spent in prison.

  On 31 December 2013, fired up with self-righteous anger, I made a page full of resolutions. I was going to find the best lawyer, have private eyes combing the country for fresh evidence, I was going to keep a diary that I could publish and make my fortune, get fitter and stronger, learn a language to give my time in here some meaning. That first year, I had so much energy, so much hope. I need hardly tell you how well all those resolutions worked out.

  Last year I tried again, but it was harder, knowing how slim were the chances of any of them coming to anything.

  Tonight I find it almost impossible. Resolutions are about taking action, making changes, having control; and yet I have no control, can take no real action, have no power to make changes. The worst part of being in prison, I’ve realized, is having so little influence over my own life. Resolutions seem beyond me now; all I can do is wish.

  It’s coming up to midnight. So here are my three wishes:

  1. I want to make love to a woman again. I want to feel her soft, warm skin next to mine, to know that perfect meeting of mind and body.

  2. I want to run, with the rain in my face, making footprints in the ground. I want to run faster than the wind, like the animal I’m named after, safe in the knowledge that no one will ever catch me again.

  3. I want to walk on that beach with you, the beach where you saved my dog. I want to watch the sun come up with you by my side, to wrap my coat around you to keep you from the chill and I want to kiss your cold lips and whisper ‘Thank you’.

  Happy New Year, my beautiful, clever lawyer. Thank you for saving Daisy. Thank you for giving me back hope.

  Yours truly,

  Hamish

  Chapter 78

  THE BASEMENT BENEATH Maggie’s house is large and high-ceilinged, with several interconnected rooms. The first, at the bottom of the staircase, is the biggest. In this room, there are narrow, horizontally configured windows, very high in the walls, that allow in weak beams of dusty light, but even in daytime the single, low-watt electric bulbs – just one in each room – are needed.

  Close to midnight, in winter, the subterranean rooms are full of shadows, but Maggie knows what lurks in each. Every time she comes down here, she thinks about ghosts, but she hasn’t seen one yet.

  ‘Bit early for spring cleaning,’ says the voice that is never silent for long, and that always has plenty to say for itself below ground.

  ‘Technically, late.’ Maggie carries a box to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Still a few more minutes of 2015 left to run.’ The box joins several others stretching up the wooden staircase. Before the night is out, Maggie will carry them upstairs and put them in the back of her car. She has already identified four household-waste disposal sites, none of them too close to home, where she will drop them off in the next couple of days.

  There is stuff in these boxes, old books, souvenirs, with which she is loath to part, and yet there are no memories here that aren’t replicated perfectly inside her head. She has forgotten nothing. Probably never will.

  ‘We’re on the move again, then?’

  ‘Probably,’ she says, knowing it is more than probable, it is certain. One way or another, her time here is coming to an end. Will she miss this house, she wonders. Unlikely. It will be nice, if anything, to find somewhere smaller, without cavernous rooms and draughty corners. A cottage, she thinks, with thick, stone walls, a dense, thatched roof, and open fires in every room. A cottage with no hallways, or corridors, or basements. A cottage in which one room leads to another and the garden is tiny, and the neighbouring houses are close by, possibly even linked.

  It might be nice to be among people again. She has already started checking available property on the Isle of Wight.

  She takes one last look around.

  The high shelving units around the room are empty now. She has never been a hoarder and it hasn’t taken long to clear the room completely. The second, smaller room holds nothing but the furniture she inherited when she bought this house. That can stay where it is. And the third room. She needs to check the third room.

  From somewhere upstairs she can hear a clock chiming.

  ‘Happy New Year, Maggie,’ says the voice that has been her companion for nearly twenty years. She doubts, now, that it will ever leave her.

  ‘Happy New Year, Daisy,’ she replies.

  Chapter 79

  31 December 2015

  Dear Hamish,

  This time next year, my love, we will walk on sands of powdered gold and swim in waters that have the power to wash away the past.

  This time next year, my love, we will eat food and drink wine beneath stars that will be dust, long before I cease to adore you.

  This time next year, my love, we will fall asleep at dawn, having spent the hours of darkness in a tangle of hot limbs, spinning ecstasy from starlight and building castles from moonbeams.

  This time next year, my love …

  Me

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

  Chapter 80

  From the office of

  MAGGIE ROSE

  The Rectory, Norton Stown, Somerset

  Monday, 4 January 2015

  Dear Hamish,

  Here’s a little something of the world outside.

  On the fourth Saturday of every month, there is a farmers’ market in Glastonbury. Maybe you know it? As you spotted for yourself, I eat very little, but I love to look at fresh food, skilfully made and beautifully laid out, and farmers’ markets fascinate me.

  I try to get there early, before the crowds, and just wander around, admiring the colours of the fruit and vegetable stalls, the artistry of the artisan bakers, smelling the cheeses, marvelling at the sheer inventiveness of the makers of cordials, pickles and preserves. So much summer goodness captured within glass.

  I never buy anything, but it
would be nice to, I think, if I could be sure it would be eaten. Can I get something for you when I go next? I need to check what I’m allowed to bring into Parkhurst, but maybe some clementines with their waxy green leaves? Or maybe your taste veers more towards passion fruit and pomegranate? Some Cheddar cheese, perhaps, with a rich dark pickle? I’m being cruel, aren’t I? I really must check the regulations before I torture your taste buds any more. I wouldn’t be allowed to bring glass into a prison anyway.

  I had a very interesting chat with James Laurence last week and I’m heading to Bristol later today. Your old friend Oliver Pearson has agreed to see me when he gets home from work. I’ll stay over tonight and fill you in when I visit tomorrow.

  I received your last letter. I’m touched, but no need to thank me as yet. I am acting out of self-interest, remember?

  Best wishes,

  Maggie

  Chapter 81

  CLIFTON OCCUPIES THE HIGH GROUND – geographically speaking, if not morally. It stands on the east of Avon Gorge, overlooking the river and much of the city, but its grand Georgian terraced houses were built on the profits of tobacco and slavery. Number 12 Goldney Road is a four-storey, end-of-terrace property, occupied by Oliver Pearson, his wife Lisa and their two young children.

  Like her husband, Lisa Pearson is a registrar at the Bristol Royal Infirmary. She has been on maternity leave since her oldest child, a three-year-old daughter, was born. The couple admit Maggie into their home without enthusiasm.

  ‘Hamish is wasting your time,’ Oliver Pearson is telling her now. ‘Chablis?’ Without waiting for an answer he pours wine into a glass the size of a goldfish bowl. It isn’t intended for her, though. He raises it to his lips in the manner of someone who has been looking forward to his first drink for some time.

  ‘Thank you, but I came by car.’

  ‘Lisa?’ He holds the bottle up as his wife, all honey-blonde hair, hockey thighs and active breasts comes back into the room. She holds a baby against one shoulder and barely looks at her husband. ‘It would be quicker to put it in a bottle and give it straight to Ludo.’

  She empties the last few drops from a toddler’s cup into the sink. ‘Coco wants you to kiss her goodnight, by the way. If you can remember where her bedroom is.’

  Pearson’s face tightens. He hasn’t offered Maggie a seat, or to take her coat, and she is hovering, uncomfortably, in the middle of the room.

  ‘Hamish was best man at your wedding,’ she says.

  A surly nod. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And godfather to Coco,’ Lisa says. ‘I can’t tell you how that goes down at mother and toddler groups.’

  ‘You must have good reason to believe your former best friend guilty of three murders, Mr Pearson.’

  ‘Four murders.’ Lisa Pearson’s eyes go from Maggie to her husband.

  ‘Mr Pearson?’

  ‘Justice in this country is weighted in favour of the guilty.’ Apart from the glass in his hand, Pearson looks like a pontificating school teacher. ‘Far more guilty people go free than innocent people are wrongly convicted. If Hamish was found guilty, it would have been for good reason.’

  ‘That’s an argument I would expect from a perfect stranger. You were his friend.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you would have an informed opinion on whether or not your former friend is capable of killing three women.’

  ‘Four.’ Lisa, on the periphery of the conversation, is not going to be left out of it entirely.

  ‘So was he?’

  Pearson sniffs loudly. ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘I want you to tell me why you think Hamish Wolfe capable of killing three women.’

  There comes an audible exhalation from the far side of the room. ‘Am I the only one in this room who can count?’

  ‘Does he have a history of violence? Did you see him mistreat women? Was he abused as a child? Did he show any signs of a mental disorder? You’re a doctor, you’d spot a problem in someone you knew well. Was he on medication? Did he seek counselling? Did he ever say or do anything that made you question, in any way, his mental stability?’

  ‘Whoa!’ Pearson puts his glass down and holds up both hands. ‘You’re not in a court now, love. You’re in my house. Have you spoken to the others? Warwick? Chris? Simon?’

  ‘No, you were the only one who would take my call.’

  ‘More fool you,’ snaps his wife. ‘Anything for a bit of attention.’

  Pearson’s head whips round as though someone has slapped him. ‘Well, I get precious little in this house.’

  Maggie speaks quickly to get their focus back on her. ‘I intend to get Hamish’s conviction overturned and my best chance of doing that is to find alternative suspects. I have four in mind, so far, Mr Pearson, and you’re one of them. Let me tell you what I think happened in Hilary term, in the year 1996.’

  Pearson seems to hunch down, like a fighter getting ready to charge. ‘I think I want you out of my house.’

  ‘I think the videotapes you were making to supplement your beer fund got a little bit too adventurous. I think—’

  ‘Videotapes? What the hell is she talking about?’

  ‘You’re leaving. Now.’

  Maggie stands her ground. ‘I don’t know how much you know about IT, Oliver, but nothing ever disappears from the internet, not completely. If any of those videos were ever posted, even decades ago, there are companies who can trace them. They’re not cheap, but I’m not working to a budget.’

  ‘Out.’ He strides ahead, making for the front door.

  She follows, nodding a goodbye to Lisa Pearson and the baby, neither of whom respond, and leaving her card on the side table by the door. ‘I’m staying at the Hotel du Vin in the town centre. I’ll be here till eleven o’clock tomorrow.’

  Chapter 82

  THE ENGLISH CHAIN, Hotel du Vin, specializes in contemporary design in quirky old buildings. The Bristol hotel, in an old sugar warehouse, is three floors of rigid leather furniture, roll-top baths and bed linen so crisp and white it could be made from freshly milled paper. Wine bottles, all of them empty, are everywhere, as though the hotels are permanently recovering from the best party ever.

  Maggie has been awake for several hours, has taken a walk around the waking city and breakfasted on salty, creamy eggs Benedict that made her feel slightly ill. She will leave in an hour. Until then – the phone is ringing.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Rose, this is the front desk. There are three gentlemen here to see you.’

  She didn’t expect them quite so soon. Nor that three of them would come. Feeling that frisson of excitement that tells her a plan is going better than anticipated, she checks the room and carries her overnight bag down to reception. They are in an alcove of the lounge area, drinking coffee. She has a second to study them before they spot her.

  ‘Good morning, Oliver.’

  The three men stand as she approaches. Not out of politeness, the looks on their faces tell her that, but in a rather feeble male attempt at intimidation. No one offers to shake her hand.

  The smell of successful male is very strong, a combination of expensive aftershave, coffee and last night’s alcohol. One of them is very tall, his dark hair more than half silver now. The other is shorter, making up for his lack of height with extra girth. She ignores Pearson and speaks to the other two. ‘Simon, Chris, good to see you. Is Warwick running late?’

  ‘Warwick’s in Scotland.’ Pearson looks down his nose at her. ‘We didn’t even bother calling him.’

  They think they can bully her with nothing more than physical presence, these men. They think an extra few stone in bone, fat and muscle will be all it takes. ‘Whereas you just had a fairly easy drive over the Severn Bridge.’ She deals with Simon Doggett first. He still plays rugby, she sees, but he favours his right leg when he stands. Repeatedly turning out as front row, bearing the weight of several large blokes, has done some serious damage to his left knee.

  ‘And y
ou’re in Gloucester, I believe, Chris?’ The tall man is in better shape. ‘You picked a good field. Orthopaedics is a growth area.’

  She sits in the nearest armchair and they do the same. They look like a business meeting. She could be the slightly quirky sales rep, trying to persuade three senior doctors to buy a new and expensive drug.

  ‘Oh, don’t look so wary, boys. I checked the medical register to find out where you’re all based. And I found your photographs in a Magdalen College yearbook. None of you have changed so much as to be unrecognizable. I’m not a witch, just a good investigator. Now, who’d like to start?’

  ‘This is the only time we’re going to talk to you without lawyers present,’ Pearson tells her.

  This makes her smile. ‘A lawyer is present. Me.’

  ‘What do you want from us, exactly?’ asks Doggett.

  ‘I want to know where you all were on 6 July 2013, 11 September 2013, and 4 November of that year. Those were the dates the three women disappeared. Oh, and better let me know where you were on 8 June 2012, when Zoe Sykes vanished. Just until we rule her out.’

  All three stare at her. Pearson voices their thoughts. ‘Are you insane?’

  It is possible she might actually enjoy this. ‘When I’ve found evidence of the business you set up all those years ago, James Laurence’s testimony about you will suddenly become much more credible. Then we have five potentially dangerous, predatory men, not just one. It seems a little far-fetched to imagine you worked together to kill Zoe, Jessie, Chloe and Myrtle, so your alibis, or lack of them, should point me in the right direction.’

  Simon Doggett stands up and practically spits his last mouthful of coffee at Oliver. ‘She’s an absolute fruitcake. I can’t believe you dragged me from Newport for this.’