Daisy in Chains (32 page)

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.

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.

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

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.’

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 you’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.’

‘Which of you killed Daisy?’ Maggie looks from one to the next, seeing the sweat break out on Easton’s temples, the red veins in Pearson’s cheeks glow a little brighter. ‘Because I don’t believe it was Hamish. He was fond of her. And he was with her that night, wasn’t he? She was there when you came to his house in the middle of the night. You probably didn’t know, Hamish thought she was asleep, but she heard what you were saying. She knew what happened to the girl in Warwick’s room. I think she threatened to go to the police and you had to shut her up.’

They are staring at her the way they might watch a dog tear apart a rabbit, the way they might look after slowing down to pass a road traffic accident, repulsed but fascinated at the same time. She has become the human equivalent of roadkill.

‘But you knew you’d never get away with two dead women in one night, so Daisy had to disappear. The only thing I’m not sure about is whether you were all involved, or just some of you. I’m certain Hamish wasn’t, though, because he thinks she’s still alive. He wants me to find her.’

While she’s been talking, they’ve risen, one by one. They want to hurt her. They won’t, though, not here. The veneer of civilization clings to them like burnt jam to the side of a saucepan.