Daisy in Chains (11 page)

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 with 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
)

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?’

‘They’ll rustle you up some beans on toast. But you’re not.’

‘How would you know about my eating habits? And, you know what, I can hear you perfectly.’

‘There was chicken defrosting in your kitchen when I came round. What? Did you say something? I’m getting really bad static.’

‘I’ll be with you in twenty minutes, Detective. Order me the fish pie.’

She is late, as he’d known she would be. He knows that road in all weathers, all traffic conditions. When she walks in, blue hair windswept, cheeks bright pink with the cold, the conversation in the bar lulls. Condensation has formed on the wine glass he has waiting for her. She gives it a quizzical look.

‘Recycling bins just outside the cloakroom,’ he tells her. ‘You seem to favour Sauvignon Blanc.’

‘I don’t drink when I’m driving.’

‘That’s 125 millilitres. Even someone of your size will stay under the limit. Trust me, I used to be a traffic cop.’

She sits. Her coat stays on. She lifts the glass. When she puts it down again, the level has significantly reduced. ‘Thanks, I needed that.’

‘Thought you might. Food will be five minutes. So, let’s get the work stuff out of the way: what did you want to ask me?’

‘Have you come across someone called Sirocco Silverwood? Almost certainly not her real name.’

He pulls a face. ‘Can’t say I have, but anyone cautioned or charged would have to give their real name, not the one they use when they’re doing the turn at kids’ parties.’

‘I’m not sure you’d want this lady anywhere near young children. She’s either an habitual fantasist or borderline psychotic.’

Pete sips his pint while Maggie fills him in on her short, but weird, conversation with the woman claiming to be Hamish Wolfe’s true love.

‘She’s not the only one,’ he says when she’s done. ‘Wolfe gets more mail than the rest of Parkhurst put together. Anything else?’

‘Yes, a possible sighting of the real killer, carrying a body into Rill Cavern after Hamish had been arrested.’

He puts his glass down.

‘And now I have your full attention.’ She’s watching him, bright blue eyes combing his face for anything he might give away. He says nothing, but finds Google Earth on his iPad and sets it to show the relevant area around Cheddar. He takes his time, does a couple of mental calculations, then shakes his head at her.

‘It’s fifty metres from Gossam Cave, where Odi and Broon were camping, out to Rill Cavern where they allegedly saw someone carrying Myrtle’s body.’

‘It’s too far, isn’t it?’

‘Almost certainly. In the dark, only one witness, the other asleep. And I know those two.’

‘Odi and Broon?’

He reaches out for his pint. ‘Yeah, they sleep rough in the square here sometimes. They drink to keep out the cold. Can’t blame them, but it doesn’t make them reliable witnesses.’

‘Will you talk to them?’

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Yes,’ he adds, when the look on her face says she’s not sure she believes him.

The food arrives, the bustle of the waiter interrupts their conversation for a few minutes. Pete nods at the food. ‘I’d eat it while it’s hot.’

She doesn’t need telling twice, tucking in with enthusiasm. ‘I’ve been reading up on the Wolfe case,’ she says.

He becomes conscious of a tightening in his chest. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

‘When did you know you had him?’

Pete has answered this question many times. ‘We had the means of identifying our killer when we found hair and carpet fibres on Jessie Tout’s body. The hairs especially. Canine DNA is as unique as its human equivalent. At some time close to the point of her death, Jessie came into contact with Wolfe’s Dalmatian, Daisy.’

‘But at the time, you didn’t know which dog?’

‘No, it was the sighting of Wolfe’s car at the petrol station that really did for him. Once Ahmed the cashier put two and two together and checked the CCTV footage, it was all over.’

‘No trace of Myrtle in the car though?’

‘He’d had time to clean it.’ Pete finishes his food and puts his fork down. ‘So, are you his new lawyer? Do you and I have to become sworn enemies?’

‘I’m sure that wouldn’t be necessary, but no. That weird and wonderful bunch have nothing. I doubt I’ll hear from any of them again.’

THE LETTER IS
waiting for Maggie when she gets back. This one, for the first time, has been directly addressed, rather than sent via her agent. This one looks different. The stamp, HMP Isle of Wight, for one, isn’t quite the same as on his previous correspondence. The paper is different too. So is the handwriting. It was posted two days ago.

THE LAVATORIES AND
slopping-out rooms in older prisons can be miserable places and Parkhurst, on the Isle of Wight, has its moments. On bad days, the sinks, the urinals, even the lavatories get blocked and overflow, sending a stream of evil-smelling swill across the already filthy tiled floor.

Most guys hold their breath and get done as quickly as possible, which isn’t easy, because there are always hordes of other guys trying to do exactly the same thing.

Not today, though. Today, Hamish Wolfe is alone. And afraid.

This should not have taken him by surprise. His first mistake. None of the officers on the corridor just now looked him in the eye. He should have known then. He should have realized when every other occupant of the room slipped out. Too late. The bloke in the doorway, a massive hulk of tattooed flesh, is blocking his way out and he hasn’t come alone. Behind him, Wolfe can see two other figures. In the corridor, silence. The sound of waiting.