Daisy in Chains (37 page)

Pete taps out a phone text.

You
OK
? You at Parkhurst?

Maggie’s response takes four minutes.

I’m fine. Just been allowed to leave. Trying to catch the next ferry. Were any of the inmates hurt, do you know?

Liz has left her own desk and wandered over to join him. Pete holds up his phone to let her read the exchange. She does so, then turns away without a word and goes back to her own computer. Pete passes on the information he has to Maggie. She doesn’t reply.

WHEN MAGGIE UNLOCKS
her door her hands are still shaking, just as they have been for hours now. The day just gone exists for her in a series of freeze-frames: the door of the interview room opening to admit armed police; being escorted out of Parkhurst while looking around every corner for one face; giving a statement at the Isle of Wight police station; declining medical attention; insisting on leaving as soon as she could; steering her car on to the ferry.

In the hours since Wolfe locked her in the interview room, she has existed in a mental vacuum. She cannot think about what has happened. Or where she goes from here.

Another text message arrives. Pete is trying to get in touch with her, has been all afternoon and evening. She types out a reply:

Going straight to bed. I’ll be in touch.

Later that evening, the phone rings. For several seconds she stares at it from across the room. It will say,
number withheld,
because calls from prison always do.

‘It’s me,’ he says.

‘I know.’ She sighs down the line.

‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine.’ She is not. She has never been further from fine and she knows that he knows it.

‘Good. When will I see you again?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She struggles for something appropriate to say. ‘I’m getting to the end of my search of the industrial estates. Just a few more to check. If I find anything, I’ll be in touch right away.’

‘Then I’ll have to hope you do.’

Silence falls again.

‘What happened today, Maggie?’ he asks her.

He isn’t talking about the riot. ‘It was the shock,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight.’

‘I wasn’t thinking at all. That’s the effect you have on me.’

A lump is solidifying in her throat. She feels an urge to slam down the receiver, to end the call. At the same time, she wants it to go on for ever.

‘It can’t happen again,’ she manages. ‘I am not one of your prison groupies. I can’t be your lawyer and some sort of screwed-up girlfriend.’

His voice drops to a whisper. ‘So be my lawyer. Get me out of here. Then we’ll talk.’

She presses the receiver close to her mouth and remembers the warm, plump lips she held there just hours earlier. She longs for him to say something more. Just one more thing. And then he does.

‘There is no room in my head for anything but you, Maggie Rose.’

Wolfe gets just four minutes. Everyone needs the phone tonight. Families will have seen reports about the riot on the news and will be anxious to talk to loved ones. The queue stretches down the corridor. He hands the receiver over to the next man in line and makes his way back to his room. Crusher is waiting for him, his narrow grey eyes gleaming.

Wolfe looks him in the eye. ‘So, did anybody get hurt?’

‘Couple of bruises. Split lips. Some guys will be in solitary for a few days but they’ll live. Work all right?’

Wolfe thinks back to the terrified woman in his arms. He remembers her arms going round his neck, her lips pressing against his. He holds up a hand to high-five the other bloke and grins. ‘Yeah. Good job, mate. I owe you.’

The Sunday Times
Magazine, Sunday, 17 August 2014

ONE DAY, ONE LIFETIME

Solicitor Rebecca Singer, who married her client, convicted murderer Jonathan Evans, in 2012, describes her typical day.

I get up early, and go out running before my son wakes at about 6 a.m. I find I need this regular discipline now that so much of my life is out of my control. I’m home in time to fix myself a fresh juice breakfast and then Jack, two, is up and it’s non-stop until I drop him off at nursery.

Jonathan tries to ring in the mornings. A lot of the other inmates sleep late, or just don’t get moving too quickly, so early in the day is when he has most chance of getting to a phone. We talk for ten to fifteen minutes and I always make sure he and Jack exchange at least a couple of words. Jack needs to know the sound of his father’s voice.

I keep a list of topics by the phone, on a small blackboard. These might be TV programmes I’ve watched, books I’ve read, current affairs that have interested me, even the spat I had with a woman in Waitrose. When you know you only have ten minutes to talk, the pressure to think of something to say can be enormous. I find I do most of the talking – I guess my life is so much more varied than his – but I make a point of being interested in the minutiae of his day, too.

Jack goes to nursery at 9 a.m. and then it’s a short drive to my offices in town. I get involved in most areas of criminal law – filing cases, investigation, visiting police stations, taking witness statements, liaising with the court, etc. – but most of my time is spent on appeals and that involves a lot of paperwork and research. I visit prisons from time to time, but never HMP Wandsworth where Jonathan is currently. That would be a potential conflict of interest. Most of my clients know nothing about my private life and I like to keep it that way.

Jack and I get home at about six and he’s usually very tired, so we just watch a bit of TV before it’s time for his bath and bed. There is a photograph beside his bed of his dad and me on our wedding day. I had a friend Photoshop it so that you can’t really tell it was taken inside a prison. I always sit with Jack until he falls asleep. Friends tell me I’m creating problems for myself down the line doing this, but Jonathan sits and looks at our photograph at exactly this time too. It is our time together as a family.

People often assume that Jack was conceived before Jonathan was convicted, but Jonathan and I met and married before we thought about having a family. HMP Wandsworth doesn’t allow conjugal visits, but as Jonathan’s solicitor I’m allowed time alone with him. We try not to take advantage of the system, but at the end of the day, we’re two people in love.

Evening is when I work for Jonathan. I manage his website, answer mail on his behalf, post blogs and Facebook stories, and of course I’m working on his appeal all the time. I write to him, too, putting down my thoughts, dreams, memories, both good and bad. I’ve discovered the incredible emotional punch that can be packed inside a good letter. It is important for me to find ways in which our unusual relationship works better than more conventional ones, and in this regard I feel we have the edge. Communicating via written correspondence really intensifies the level of our connection. There are couples that spend hours together every day who don’t have the intimacy that Jonathan and I share.

People ask me how I do this, how long I can carry on with this half-life but, knowing Jonathan, there can be no alternative for me. And it’s really not so bad. I speak to him, write to him, most days. I see him every couple of weeks. He’s not there to carry out the rubbish or take the lid off the marmalade jar, but I know I’m in his thoughts every waking hour. He thinks of no other woman but me. I’m as sure of his love as any woman can be.

People ask me if I feel my life is on hold. I understand them thinking that way but the answer is no. My life might be unconventional, my family certainly is, and of course I hope things will be different in future. For now, though, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

(
Maggie Rose: case file 64/701 Hamish Wolfe
)

‘
PETE, MAGGIE ROSE
on the phone for you.’

Pete is on his way back from the loo, having stopped off at the coffee machine. It’s two days since the Parkhurst riot, and this will be the first time he’s spoken to her.

‘Hi, Maggie.’

‘I think I’ve found the office the killer used. The computer is still in it. I’m there now.’

It takes a second for the news to sink in, then he’s looking around to see who else is in the room. ‘Where? Where are you?’

She names a small industrial estate on the outskirts of Bristol’s south side.

‘Maggie, I can’t just – what makes you think you’ve got the right place?’

‘It’s a one-room office with private toilet and kitchen. Taken in the name of a company called PCG Ltd, which doesn’t exist. I checked. The rent’s paid up until the middle of next year, but nobody’s been near the place for months. We know that because a load of junk mail’s built up just inside the door. I’m with the caretaker of the site. He has a spare set of keys, but we haven’t been inside yet.’

He’s trying to think. And to get Liz’s attention. ‘OK, I’ll try and have someone pop round in the next few days.’

‘I thought you’d say that. The security system on the gate involves the guard keeping a record of people going in and out of the estate. It’s in case of an emergency evacuation. They need to know which units are occupied and who’s in each one.’

‘And?’

‘They don’t keep CCTV footage for more than three months, and they don’t take car registrations, but the logbooks go back three years. The office was used regularly, right up until the middle of November 2013. That’s two weeks before Wolfe was arrested. No one has been near it since.’

Pete sits a little more upright on the desk. The telltale symptoms of excitement are kicking in. Elevated heartbeat? Check. Damp underarms? Check. Tight feeling in his chest? All present and correct. ‘If that’s true, it points to Wolfe being the tenant.’

Her voice hardens. ‘No, it points to someone making it look as though Hamish was the tenant. Are you coming down?’

He fakes a sigh. ‘I suppose so.’

It takes nearly two hours to assemble a team, but Maggie is waiting in her car when he pulls up outside Unit 14 on the Wynchwood Estate. Two hours in the cold have taken their toll on her appearance. Her face is pinched, and almost seems to be reflecting the blue of her hair. She gets out and stands by her car, expecting him to approach her. He doesn’t. He concentrates on the building. Everything he’s looking at, she’ll already have checked out. He can’t afford to miss anything.

Unit 14 is in a block of red-brick offices. There is just one door, on the front of the building; 14a is on the ground floor, with an identical room, 14b, above it. There are windows at ground level, but blinds cover them.

From somewhere nearby, a thin, dark-haired man appears. Maggie joins him and they approach.

‘This is Hector,’ Maggie says. ‘He manages the estate.’

Pete stretches out his hand, shows his warrant card with the other. ‘Good to meet you, Hector. Do you have an office where we can talk?’ He turns around to see the crime scene investigators have arrived and are unloading equipment from their van. ‘Maggie, I’d like you to stay in your car, please. Guys, no one goes in there but you.’

Turning his back on Maggie, Pete follows Hector to a nearby building, where the manager has made a small, windowless room his home. He examines the visitors’ log and double-checks what Maggie has already told him about CCTV footage.

‘What about bills? Electricity? Internet connection?’

Hector has a foreign accent, but his grasp of English suggests a better education than his job requires. ‘Electricity is included in the rent, up to a certain amount. Phone lines, internet, all that sort of thing is the tenant’s responsibility.’

That means there could be bills. A paper trace. Although someone going to this amount of trouble will probably have planned for that. ‘Did you ever see anyone going in there?’

Hector thinks for a moment. ‘A lot of people come and go. You could ask security, but the lady already did and the guard wasn’t with us this time last year.’

‘Have you been in the room in question? Recently?’

Hector shakes his head. ‘I’ve never been in it. I offered to show it to the lady, but she said we should wait for you. What do you think is in there?’

The look on the manager’s face suggests he’s hoping for a body, a stash of stolen goods at the very least.

‘Probably nothing.’ His radio crackles into life. ‘Weston.’

‘You need to get down here, Pete.’ It is the head of the investigation team. ‘I think your colourful friend could be on to something.’

Hector’s ears are visibly flapping. Pete steps outside. ‘What?’

‘First up, no fingerprints anywhere in the room. Not a one that we’ve found so far, which is suspicious in itself. More than that, though, we fired up the computer. Maggie suggested we use the password
Daisy
.’

Pete swears under his breath. ‘She’s there? Why is she in there?’

‘She isn’t. She’s hovering in the doorway. Anyway, it worked. This is it, Pete. The computer that was used to stalk those women. There’s a Facebook account, email, the lot. We’re packing it up.’

Pete sits in his car, facing the building where a one-room industrial unit has become a crime scene. He is on the phone.

‘They’re taking the computer out now.’ He watches it being carried out to a waiting van on its way to a facility where geniuses who look like teenagers will strip it bare. Back inside the building, the investigators continue to comb the small, square room and the smaller kitchen and lavatory.

Several yards down the road, Maggie sits in her car. She is taking photographs, occasionally making notes on a laptop.

‘We’re going to have to tell Latimer,’ says Liz.

‘Soon as we know anything for sure.’ The last thing he needs is Latimer poncing up here like some bloody great drama queen,
demanding answers that nobody can give him. ‘It still points to Wolfe, Liz. It’s in the right location. The password. And anyone else would have closed it down by now.’

Liz doesn’t argue.