Daisy in Chains (19 page)

She shakes her head. ‘It’s stupid.’

‘Go on.’

‘Sirocco. You know, that woman I was telling you about? She kept going on about how she and Hamish were soulmates. I thought she was harmless enough, but possibly a bit unhinged. And as you pointed out yourself, that lot know where I live.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘No, they were all odd, but she was the only one claiming he loved her. And she could have got that paper rose from Sandra. Did you find prints on it?’

‘Nothing conclusive. A few partials that could be Wolfe’s, but paper is very difficult to get clear prints off. Another that definitely isn’t Wolfe’s or yours, but didn’t come up on our system.’

‘I mentioned it today, when I met him. I should have pressed.’

He picks up his fork, holds it in mid-air. ‘You were telling me the truth when you said you live here alone.’

‘Of course I was.’

‘Do we know each other well enough, yet?’

For a second, she has no idea what he means. Then she remembers. He wants to know whom she talks to, when she thinks she’s alone. She says, ‘You’ll think me nuts.’

He has a nice smile, she decides. Kinder, less complicated than that of Wolfe. ‘You have blue hair,’ he says. ‘I thought you were nuts the second I laid eyes on you.’

What difference can it make? ‘I had a twin. A sister. She died.’

His smile fades. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It was a long time ago. I never knew her, not really. Except I do. I know her as well as I know myself and I feel her loss every day. There are times when, without her, I feel like half a person.’

‘And you talk to her? Use her to work out stuff you’d normally discuss with a mate?’

She wouldn’t have expected him to understand so quickly. ‘I talk to her and she talks back. I hear her voice, as clearly as I hear yours.’

His eyebrows draw closer together. ‘Any other voices you hear in your head?’

She smiles. ‘No. Just hers.’

‘Have you thought about getting a pet?’

She has a sudden image of a dog. A Dalmatian, chasing sticks into the sea, barking at waves, giddy with delight.

‘Do you talk to anyone who isn’t there?’ she asks.

‘Yeah. I talk to my daughter. I know what it’s like to miss someone.’

She is calmer now. Pete drains his glass. ‘So what do you plan to do about the Hamish Wolfe case, if I may ask?’

She feels an illogical and unexpected urge to please this man. ‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Wolfe is guilty. He can stay where he is.’

Maggie walks slowly up the stairs once Pete has left. She needs to sleep now, sleep and not think, for hours.

‘Twin sister? Seriously?’

‘First thing that came into my head.’ In her bedroom, Maggie looks around for her dressing gown.

‘What if he checks?’

‘He won’t.’ She smiles a tight, brief, smile. ‘I think he’s a bit smitten.’

She pulls off clothes and goes into the bathroom. Her eyes are sore from wearing contact lenses for too long. She takes them out, cleans her teeth and steps on the bathroom scales.

‘Someone’s messing with you.’

Before leaving, Pete had been as good as his word, sanding down the underside of her table so that the intruder’s mysterious graffiti could no longer be seen.

‘I know.’ She has lost weight again.

‘That woman from the Wolfe Pack? Sirocco?’

‘Seems most likely. The question is, why?’

WOLFE FEELS EVERY
punch thrown at fight club. The two fighters slam into the metal lockers and he feels the blow in his kidneys. He feels skin peeling off knuckles as a fist slams into the side of a jaw.

He closes his eyes, tries to picture Maggie’s pale skin, her slim, gently tapering fingers edged in fondant pink. He tries to remember the scent she’d brought into the prison with her, an odd mixture of warm wool and cold chemicals. He tries, but can’t quite take himself out of the stark, cold violence of the here and now.

He can almost feel the blood start to flow, its warm stickiness trickling down his face. Maybe it’s because he knows, on a precise and detailed level, the physical damage these two are doing to each other, or perhaps it’s because his will be the job of fixing them up later. Fight club injuries are rarely seen by the prison doctor, because all injuries, however small, have to be reported to the authorities, and if the prison authorities get wind of fight club, steps will be taken to shut it down. So guards are bribed, inmates close enough to hear what’s going on are threatened into silence and the CCTV cameras in the gym are blacked out.

The yelling is inside Wolfe’s head like a migraine. The crunch of bone hitting bone is a sound he feels, deep in his gut. He looks down, at the scuffed, worn gym floor and tries to remember the sound of Maggie’s voice. Light but low-pitched. Measured, as though she tests each word out in her head before speaking it. He tries to imagine her saying something nice. Something nice and nonsensical. Instead he hears grunts and curses.

Around the gym, eyes are fixed on the reeling pair in the middle. The Muslim boy is winning. He’s smaller but faster, aiming his blows just beneath his opponent’s ribcage. One accurately delivered body-punch in that spot can stop a fighter. Repeated body-punches will wear any fighter down. His opponent, white, heavier, tattooed, is struggling to do anything other than fend off the blows.

In the corner of the gym, tucked away behind some five-a-side goalposts that won’t be needed again until spring, is a canvas equipment bag the exact colour of Maggie’s hair. Blue hair? He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected her to be quite so beautiful.

A gossamer light spray of red mist forms in the air above the fighters. The Muslim boy staggers. The spectators yelp like hyenas circling prey and the fighters crash into the goalposts. Wolfe looks around, nervously.

The noise level builds. Inmates in their cells who can see nothing of what’s going on yell encouragement all the same. Many will have a bet on the outcome, even if they can’t afford the premium to watch. At the end of the corridor, those guards on weekend night duty stare at TV screens and turn up the volume. Wolfe looks at his watch. Three minutes and twelve seconds. Longer than many fights. These two are evenly matched. It could go on for some time longer. The injuries could be beyond his ability to patch up.

Maggie had been one of the last of the visitors to leave the visiting hall. He’d sat and watched her walk away, her shoulders tense, conscious of being observed but never once looking back. She’d disappeared, a flicker of white in the doorway, and he’d been overwhelmed by a feeling that he’d never see her again. That one visit would sate her curiosity.

The Muslim is back on top. He’s holding the white boy by the hair, hammering punches up into his chin. White boy kicks out and misses. The flesh of his face is bouncing in time with the blows. Already it looks red, swollen, as though its insides are bursting through the skin.

The crowd senses victory is close. The bookmaker’s eyes have narrowed. White boy is down on the stained tiles. He holds up his hand. It’s over. He gets one last kick from his opponent, a torrent of abuse from those who have lost money on him, and then people start to slink away back to their cells.

The winner staggers to a corner where his supporters look after him. Wolfe kneels down by the loser. The boy, younger than he realized, has lost consciousness. Wolfe checks his breathing, his pulse.

‘Tyler.’ Wolfe finds an unmarked spot on the boy’s cheek and slaps it. ‘Talk to me, Tyler, can you hear me?’

‘Stand back, Doc, we need to get him out of here.’

‘I don’t know how badly he’s hurt. You can’t move him.’

But they can, and they do. Three men hoist him up and carry him out. Wolfe and Phil follow, bringing their towels, their buckets, their bandages.

Behind them, the gym door closes and is locked. Neither looks back, because it doesn’t do to know the guards who are in on this, who allow fight club to happen.

The corridor is empty. Tyler and his supporters have vanished into one of the cells. Finding them won’t be hard. All Wolfe and Phil need to do is follow the blood.

From the office of

MAGGIE ROSE

The Rectory, Norton Stown, Somerset

Friday, 11 December 2015

Dear Mr Wolfe,

There is nothing I can do for you. The case against you is as sound as any I’ve seen and you gave me nothing yesterday that hasn’t already been speculated upon endlessly and fruitlessly by those who campaign for your release.

That effort, I’m sure you know, is driven by your own personal charisma rather than any conviction as to your innocence. People want to believe in you because you are handsome and capable of being charming; and what people want to believe in, they usually do.

I can’t believe this will come as a surprise to you. I had no sense, yesterday, of your taking our meeting seriously. I was a diversion for you, a brief entertainment. I don’t blame you for that, but I have neither the time nor inclination to indulge you further, I’m afraid.

Yours sincerely,

Maggie Rose

‘
SHE
’
S GOING AGAIN
.’

Glass trembles in the door frame as Latimer doesn’t break stride, bears down upon Pete and slaps paper on to his desk. Liz, who’s been perched on its edge, slides off and backs away.

Pete picks up the printed email from a member of the Isle of Wight prison management team letting Latimer know that Hamish Wolfe has sent out another visiting order to Maggie Rose.

‘Doesn’t mean she’ll accept it.’ Pete catches Liz’s eye across the room.

‘She already has.’ Latimer scrunches the email, throws it and misses the waste bin. ‘Pick that up, someone.’

‘One visit, you said.’ Latimer is talking to Pete as though it is his personal responsibility. ‘Tick the box, you said.’

Pete lifts up both hands. ‘What can I say? She told me she thinks he’s guilty. That he can stay where he is. And this was after she met him.’

‘Well, he’s got to her somehow. Which means we have to up our game. All of us.’ Latimer looks around the room, then back at Pete. ‘Go through that file again. Think how she thinks. Second-guess what she’s going to do. In fact, put your own application in. Go and see him.’

‘Why me? Liz is his liaison officer.’

‘You know why you. You know the guy.’ Latimer turns and heads for the door. ‘Step it up, people. I am not losing this conviction.’

Across the room, Liz is wearing a small, tight smile. ‘Sir,’ she calls out. ‘When is she due to see him?’

‘Today. She’s probably with the bastard now.’

MAGGIE IS MORE
nervous this time. Her breathing is too fast, her mouth too dry, and her stomach is trying to churn contents it doesn’t have, because she hasn’t eaten in hours. This time, she sees him the second she steps into the visiting hall. He smiles. She doesn’t.

‘How are you?’ he says when there is nothing more substantial than a piece of re-formed wood between them.

‘I’m good. You?’ She sees the raised pores around his jawline that say he has shaved within the last hour. ‘Can I get you something?’ She glances back at the serving hatch, at the weak beverages and cheap confectionery. ‘Coffee? Something to eat?’

‘No, thank you. You’ve had a long trip – please . . .’ He gestures that she should sit down. He will take nothing from her, and his gallantry is flying in the face of prison visit convention. Every other inmate she has ever visited has been eager to stuff himself with cakes and chocolate.

She sits, checking the chair first. She isn’t wearing white this time, has chosen instead a masculine-cut trouser suit in navy blue. Today, blue hair aside, she looks like a lawyer and the thought helps her pull herself together.

‘You got my letter?’ she says. ‘And you agree to my condition? I assume you must, because the visiting order arrived so quickly.’

‘I agree,’ he sits slowly. ‘For five of our ten questions we can ask the other to elaborate or explain the answer.’

‘I wasn’t coming all this way to get ten one-word replies.’

‘Nor was I.’ He smiles again and, once more, she looks for the game behind the smile. ‘And I only came down one flight of stairs.’

‘So who’s going to start?’

His hands make a
go-ahead
gesture. ‘Ladies first.’

‘What happened to your sister?’ she says, and notes with satisfaction, and a small level of guilt, that she has surprised and hurt him. He was not expecting to talk about his sister.

‘She died,’ he says.

‘Explain.’

His face tightens, his eyes close briefly, but this is his game and he will play by the rules. ‘We were on a family holiday in Wales. Dad, Sophie and I booked a climbing day at an outdoor activity centre. Sophie and I were similar weights so we climbed together, Dad went with another bloke, but they were close by. We got to the top easily enough, it wasn’t a difficult climb, and then Sophie abseiled down first.’