Daisy in Chains (36 page)

‘Can’t see how. The other partial prints on it could be his, but not conclusively. She could have nicked it from his mum. Hell, she could be into origami herself.’

‘Thank you, Pete. Did you find anything at her flat?’

‘Yep. We found her mobile phone. She was the one texting you that night – you know, the old
he loves me, he loves me not
malarkey. And she has use of a mate’s car from time to time, so she could, in theory, have followed us all to Wells. Nothing to tie her to the Odi and Broon murders yet, but we’ll keep looking. We can keep her inside for today, at least.’

‘Pete, I didn’t thank you for last night. For sending that constable round to the fairground.’

‘I won’t do it again.’

She is smiling. ‘Yes, you will.’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘Thank you.’ She puts the phone down gently. ‘You will,’ she says to herself.

HAMISH SAYS,
‘
I
’
M
glad you’re OK, but I don’t want you taking any more risks for me.’

‘I think I can safely promise you to avoid poorly maintained fairground rides in the middle of winter. And, who knows, your favourite detective might find something at Sarah Smith’s flat that links her to Odi and Broon’s murders.’ Maggie stops, wondering what could realistically be found by the police at Sirocco’s flat. And whether she might be a possible suspect in the Wolfe murders. ‘You might want to tell your parents to steer clear of her, though,’ she says. ‘Just in case she gets bail.’

He reaches down below the table.

‘Something I thought you might be interested in.’ Hamish is holding out a soft-covered book, A4 size, about a centimetre thick. ‘I had Mum bring it in. It’s our yearbook from Magdalen College. Here you go.’

He turns it to face her. She is looking at a photograph of students gathered for the Commem Ball. It is early in the evening, because the sky is still light and the revellers pristine and fresh. It is the same photograph that, cropped down, was used by the media during Hamish’s trial. Hamish is in white tie, the most formal of evening dress, and is with a group of similarly dressed men and glamorous young women. The woman on his arm, though, is different from the others.

Her hair is dark and thick, swept up on to the top of her head. It will curl down past her shoulders when loose. Her eyes are big and brown. Her nose large and angular, her teeth slightly overlapping. Her skin is lily pale. She’s wearing black, as large women often do, but the fine fabric flows over her limbs and torso like a silk waterfall. The neckline is a deep V-shape, drawing attention to her large breasts and cleavage. The sleeves are long and slim, made from black lace. Tucked behind one ear is a large, white flower.

‘Daisy,’ Maggie says, feeling a pang of deep sadness. ‘She was gorgeous.’

Hamish sounds a little defensive. ‘Yes, she was.’

She looks him in the eye. ‘You were a fool.’

He doesn’t disagree. ‘So many times, I’ve asked myself, is it too late for Daisy and me. If I were to find her again. What do you think?’

She opens her mouth to say that she has no opinion on the subject, that she couldn’t care less about Daisy, but can’t do it. His eyes are holding her. They are locked in some weird staring competition. She is trying to look away, just can’t quite—

The door shakes in its frame as something hard and heavy slams against it. Wolfe is faster than she, jumping immediately to his feet. He takes the two strides that bring him to the door and peers through the inset window. The door is banged again. Directly outside, someone is swearing.

‘Fuck!’ Wolfe spins round. ‘Get in the corner. Now!’

She hears the words, but they don’t quite make it to the part of her brain that directs movement, because nothing happens.

There is a fight going on outside. She can hear punches, grunts, the rasp of breath. In the distance, maybe on another floor, there is more noise. Wolfe is pressed right up against the window, as though trying to block the view out. Or the view in.

‘Maggie.’ Wolfe is whispering, low and urgent. ‘Get out of sight, now.’

‘What’s happening?’ It is a stupid question. She knows what is happening, can hear it. The guard outside is being beaten up. She can hear the grunts and gasps of someone in pain, the solid thud of heavy bodies crashing around. She has no idea how many are out there. It could be two, or a dozen. She and Hamish are locked in though, aren’t they? They are safe? She pushes her chair back.

One last loud exclamation outside and silence falls. Hamish gestures again for her to move and this time she does, darting to the corner of the room.

Three loud bangs on the door and a shout. ‘Who’s in there?’

Hamish’s grip tightens on the handle. The door is locked. She is repeating it to herself like a mantra. The door is always locked. It’s standard procedure. When she’s ready to leave, she always hears the guard slide back the bolts and turn the key.

The same bolts that are being slid open now.

The door is still locked. The door is still locked.

With the key held by a guard who is likely unconscious or even dead.

‘Wolfe! Is that you in there?’

Move on, she is praying, wreak your havoc elsewhere. Above all, do not search the guard’s unconscious body. Don’t find the—

The key is being turned. The door pushes open a fraction. Wolfe shoves it closed and leans against it. The colour of his face turns quickly from near white to bright pink. He is breathing in short, angry bursts. She should help, surely? Her strength is better than nothing.

‘Maggie, get on the phone.’

Angry that she didn’t think of this sooner, she finds her phone and makes the call. Someone is kicking the door now and Wolfe is losing ground.

A voice on the phone tells her that the situation is known to the police and a response is under way. ‘How long? How long before you get here?’

She doesn’t hear the answer. She has dropped her phone at the sight of Wolfe’s boot-clad feet sliding along the floor. The door is opening and she can see a bent knee behind it, straining forward.

With a sudden change of tack, Wolfe leaps from the door and it crashes open. She darts from her corner and stands behind him.

‘Who’ve you got in here, Hamish?’ The voice is South London, a white man, she thinks, somewhere in his thirties or forties. Not old, not young.

‘Somebody in here smells a fuck of a lot nicer than you do, Wolfe.’ Midlands accent. Older.

Someone hawks and spits. She can see the bloody gob of spittle on the tiled floor. Three pairs of feet.

‘Turn around, gentlemen. Walk away.’ Wolfe does not sound terrified, but he wouldn’t, would he? He is one of them. She is the prey.

On either side of Wolfe, the jackals come into view.

‘Hello, Bluey.’ The Londoner grins at her with the sunken jaw of a mouth that has few remaining teeth. He is smaller, thinner, older than Wolfe and alone might not be a threat. The other two, leering at her from the other side, are younger and bigger.

‘Out you go, Hamish. We’ll look after your visitor for you.’

‘Not happening, guys.’

The smell of them is stronger and their voices louder. It is as though they are leaning in towards her. One of them keeps sucking in air, noisily, as though he is feeding on the smell of her.

‘I spoke to the police before you broke in.’ Years of practice keeps her voice steady in difficult situations. ‘They know what’s going on here. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re already in the building.’

‘Oh, I think we’ve got a bit of time.’ The man is actually unfastening the top button of his jeans.

‘Hang on.’ This from one of the others. ‘Who says you go first?’

‘Nobody’s going first,’ says Wolfe. ‘The man who touches my lawyer, who puts my appeal at risk, I will come for with a razor. I will slice open his abdomen and I will pull out his intestinal tract. I will do this at night, so that no one finds him till morning, after he has spent several hours dying in agony. I will do this to each and every one who jeopardizes my chance of getting out of here. Now, does anyone think I’m bluffing?’

No answer, but she has a sense of the pack being less sure of itself. Hamish thrusts out his hand.

‘Keys.’ He steps forward, taking the fight to them. ‘Who’s got them?’

‘Come on, Wolfe, ten minutes?’ The man from the Midlands is wheedling now, like a kid trying to negotiate a bedtime reprieve. ‘We’ll let you go first.’

‘Give me the keys and fuck off out of here.’

There is an unspoken signal between them, then the leader mutters something. They turn. One of them has left. Two are out of the door. They are going, they are actually going. Maggie stares at the doorway, willing it to be empty. The third leaves, with one last obscene gesture, a thrusting of the hips in her direction and a wiggling of a fur-covered tongue.

Elsewhere in the prison, the fighting is still going on. Overhead, along the corridor she can hear yelling, swearing.

‘Hold up, you’re not going anywhere.’ She has been making for the door, Hamish is holding her back. ‘Listen to me. Maggie, are you listening?’

‘I have to get out.’ She twists round, grasps his arms. ‘Listen, they’re everywhere. That lot could come back. They’ll tell others. I’m not safe here.’

‘This is the only place you’re safe. I’m going to lock you in.’

‘No!’ She can see no logic in this. Lock her in here with these animals? She will fight him if she has to. She tries to pull away, he holds her fast.

‘Maggie, until this calms down, you need to be where no one can get at you. I’ll lock you in and nobody will get the key from me, I promise you.’

She is shaking her head.

‘I swear you’ll be safe.’ He is pulling away from her now. He leaves her in the centre of the room and makes for the door.

‘Hamish, don’t leave me.’ Maggie has never imagined anything so pathetic could come out of her mouth.

He turns, one hand on the door. ‘I can’t lock the door from the inside. We’re sitting ducks here. I can’t fight them off for ever.’

‘I know. I still don’t want you to go.’

She sees him unsure of himself, doubtful. Then he seems to step forward. Except he hasn’t moved, she is the one who crossed the distance between them.

‘Thank you,’ she says.

Doors are slamming. Something hard and heavy is being banged against metal. People are coming.

She feels his face reaching down towards hers. She tells herself that he is taking advantage, as all male prisoners would, of a few minutes alone with a woman and that she is allowing it because she might just owe him her life. She tells herself this, as his arms wrap around her, and every muscle in his body seems to tense, and all the while she knows she is a fraud, that she is the one who will kiss him.

She stands on tiptoe as their lips meet.

Her arms cup themselves around his shoulders and she loves the hard play of muscle she can feel under the cotton fabric. Her fingers play with the rough cotton, clutching it into fists, stretching it out like elastic and she knows she is grasping at his clothing because she doesn’t quite dare to do it to his flesh.

In another universe, someone screams.

‘Aw, Christ almighty.’ Wolfe has let her go, stepped back away from her. She is trembling. The reaction of her body to the threat of rape was nothing compared to this.

He bends forward and kisses her one last time. ‘Keep out of sight. Keep quiet. Someone will come.’

She is alone. She hears the door close, the key turn, then Hamish’s footsteps run lightly away down the corridor. She walks to the corner of the room, the one that cannot be seen from the door and sinks to the floor. She waits.

PETE WALKS INTO
the cid room to find a group of detectives gathered around Liz’s computer screen.

‘What’ve I missed?’ he asks, heading to his own desk.

‘Riot at Parkhurst,’ Sunday tells him.

The coffee Pete has brought with him overspills as he puts the cup down too quickly. ‘What are you looking at?’ he calls over.

Sunday names the police intranet site but it takes several seconds to load up. ‘Someone fill me in?’ he says.

‘Kicked off about noon,’ Sunday tells him. ‘Outside normal visiting hours. The place is still in lockdown. No one going in or out.’

Pete double-checks the date, although he hardly needs to. He knows that Maggie is visiting Wolfe today. As a lawyer, she won’t need to stick to visiting hours.

The site loads and he keys in
HMP Parkhurst.

‘Can anyone give me an update on Parkhurst?’ Latimer has joined them now. ‘Nobody there’s answering the phones.’

‘It’s saying here the prison staff have regained control, sir,’ Sunday says. ‘The Governor’s quoted as saying it couldn’t be described as a riot, just an hour or so of disturbance, and that’s under control now.’

The page Pete is looking at has been assembled in a hurry. The header tells him it is the official intranet page of HMP Isle of Wight. Side menu bars list procedures, staff members, contact telephone numbers, publicly available documents and others that are confidential to the police. The main item on the home page, though, is a news feature.

Fighting broke out on H wing of Parkhurst Barracks at 1157 hours today and quickly escalated to spread to B and D wings. The prison is still low-staffed after the Christmas break and staff were momentarily caught off guard.

A state of emergency was declared and assistance from the local police service requested. Order was restored at 1323 hours.

Several inmates and three prison staff have required medical treatment. One officer and two inmates have been taken to the local hospital. The ringleaders have been placed in solitary confinement.

Several visitors were on the premises when the disturbances broke out. None of them were affected and all have since been escorted away from the prison.

Prison management are working on the theory that the disturbance was deliberately orchestrated, and that it could even have been intended as some form of distraction. All prisoners, though, have been accounted for.