Daisy in Chains(21)

And another young woman steps off our pages.

A few days after Myrtle’s disappearance, the police had their first piece of luck in the case. The cashier at an Esso-owned petrol station on the Bridgwater Road (A38), a few miles north of Cheddar, had spotted something unusual in the forecourt. The owner of a black BMW had stopped to check his tyre pressure and the cashier happened to notice him opening the boot. The cashier describes what happened next as a ‘sort of scuffle’.

We may never know what might have been if he’d checked the footage immediately and called the police. He didn’t. The station was busy, he wasn’t entirely sure of what he’d seen, and he didn’t at that stage know about Myrtle’s disappearance.

Three days later, he saw a piece on the news and was alarmed enough to mention it to a police officer he knew – DC Pete Weston again.

What Weston and the cashier saw when they watched the footage was a figure dressed in dark clothes open the boot of the car carefully, then dart forward and close it again. The interior of the boot is too dark to be seen, but as the car was driven away, something that looked like fabric could be seen dangling from the boot.

A search of the grounds around the petrol station unearthed a discarded ‘pop-sock’. It was later to be linked, via DNA and skin particles, to Myrtle.

DC Weston immediately traced the black BMW to a Mr Hamish Wolfe, consultant surgeon. Wolfe was arrested.

His computer was seized. Had detectives been hoping to find a familiar IP address, they were disappointed. Wolfe had, though, made one big mistake. He’d posted, just once, on Jessie Tout’s Facebook page using the Harry Wilson account. It was the other crucial piece of evidence that was to seal his fate.





Chapter 15


ACCORDING TO ITS website, Minehead Caravan Park is one of Somerset’s most popular holiday destinations. Photographs on the website show the ‘homes’ painted the white of fresh milk, with picket fences and neat gardens. They show families making their way along reed-lined paths to the ‘miles of sandy beaches’ just a seashell’s throw from the closest caravans.

None of these photographs were taken in early December, at 6.30 in the evening, when the world is dark and the wind aspires to be gale force.

Maggie waits, her car engine ticking over, at the park entrance. The barrier shudders and lifts and, for a second, the ghostly movement unnerves her. Then she sees the security camera on top of the hut. Someone knows she’s here and that should be reassuring but somehow isn’t. She drives forward and the barrier closes behind her.

The road through the holiday village follows the line of the sea before curving inland towards the administration facility and social hall. In the near distance she can see the Ferris wheel and the helter-skelter of the fairground.

The edges of the road are blurred by sand. Sand lies on window ledges, weighs down roofs, gathers in corners. After a minute or two, she sees the few, low lights that indicate the admin building. In the summer neon signs offering Dancing, Music, Licensed Bar can be seen from the other side of the Channel, but none of them are lit tonight.

The foyer smells of stale beer, cooking fat and damp carpet. There are stacks of metal-framed chairs against one wall. Crumpled crisp packets and sweets lie amongst balls of dust in the corners. A wide-headed brush has been abandoned on its side, its bristles encrusted with dirt and human hair.

The ballroom is almost in darkness but emergency lights lend a green glow to the walls as Maggie heads for where she can now hear voices. Directly ahead of her is a stage, curtained with heavy red velvet. For the first time, she is beginning to regret not taking Pete up on his offer to come with her.

She would not have been welcome here with Pete.

The voices have fallen silent and she has a sense of people, just around the corner in the bar area, listening to her approach. She gets closer and can see shoulders, backs of heads. Moving as one, the heads turn to face her.

She can see them all now. Around a dozen, most seated, some standing by a bar in which every optic is empty. She spots Sandra Wolfe in one of the seats, sitting next to a young woman with very long black hair.

‘Maggie?’

A man is coming towards her. He is small and skinny, with an angry-looking patch of eczema around his neck and several shaving cuts.

‘I’m Mike Shiven.’ He’s holding out a small hand towards her. She fights back a shiver when it lies, flat and dead, in her own. Up close, she can see a crusting around his eyelashes and, when he releases her hand, she feels as though he has left skin behind.

‘It was good of you to come,’ he says. ‘We’re all very grateful.’

Everyone is staring at her, not even trying to soften their curiosity. One woman looks quite elderly, a couple barely more than teenagers. Most are women. All of them, she sees now that she’s closer, are wearing paper flowers as buttonholes.

‘This is Andy Bear.’ Shiven is indicating a huge man who’s followed him over from the bar. ‘He’s the manager of the holiday village. It’s thanks to him we can meet here.’

Bracing herself, Maggie holds out her hand to Bear, whose hairy stomach is hanging below the rim of his sweatshirt. He is wearing oversized sweatpants, but the elastic in the fabric has gone in the knees and the thread is looking thin around the crotch. His hand is cold and clammy and she drops it quickly.

‘Shall we sit down?’ With one hand in the small of her back, Shiven steers her towards the waiting circle of chairs. ‘I’m sure we’d all like to welcome Maggie Rose here tonight.’ There is a half-hearted smattering of applause. ‘Maggie, thank you for coming. We’re here for you. What would you like to say to us?’