Daisy in Chains(26)

This absence of expectation appears to be the key. A woman need not cook, wash or clean for a man in prison. He won’t fart in bed, roll home drunk in the early hours or cheat on her. He’ll never mistreat her, because the guards won’t let him close enough. She doesn’t have sex, but she has sexual tension in abundance and, for many women, it is the thrill of expectation, rather than the act itself, which is so very delicious. Desire is never replaced by duty-sex.

The particular case of Hamish Wolfe, recently convicted serial killer, serves a different need, according to Barton. ‘Wolfe is the ultimate bad-boy celebrity,’ she says. ‘The hordes of teenage girls and young women who allegedly send him love letters and explicit photographs are succumbing to the age-old teenage need to rebel with the unsuitable boyfriend. Girls who dote on Hamish can shock their parents in the knowledge that, barring a breakout at Parkhurst, they are perfectly safe. Older women who fall for his charms see the essential evil in him as a vulnerability. He’s broken; they can fix him.’

Unrealistic narcissism lies at the heart of a woman’s relationship with an evil man. It matters not how many others he’s mistreated; in her twisted mind, she will be different.

Sue Van Morke doubts that a longing for a lost romantic ideal can entirely explain the fascination of killers. For her, the motivation is often much darker. In her book, Darkest Love, she argues that many of these women are addicted to violence. She writes: ‘. . . many prison brides have a history of violent relationships. Becoming involved with a convicted killer allows them to feed this addiction, while remaining relatively safe.’

Association with a notorious killer can bring a twisted sort of status to women with low self-esteem. A man who kills is powerful. By becoming his woman, the female in question is absorbing some of this power.

Which rather begs the next question: How innocent are these women themselves? A hybristophiliac is someone who is sexually excited by violent outrages performed on others. Some of the women drawn to violent men may not just be passive observers. They may be offenders themselves, or potential offenders.

Like attracts like, says Van Morke. ‘You show me a woman attracted to a violent man, I’ll show you someone with a potential for violence as great. These women are to be treated with extreme caution. Possibly avoided altogether.’

(Maggie Rose: case file 00357/4 Hamish Wolfe)





Chapter 17


PETE SITS AT the mullioned window that chills the room down faster than the open door of a freezer might. The heavy-lined curtains keep out a lot of the cold but for some reason, tonight, he wants to look out at the night. He is keeping one eye on his phone, trying to pluck up courage to make the call he’s been planning all day. He dials.

‘Maggie Rose.’

Poor reception. ‘How was it?’ he asks.

‘How was what?’

He can barely hear her. He presses the receiver closer to his ear. ‘Your first encounter with the Wolfe Pack.’

‘What, you have a trace on me now?’

‘Course not,’ he says, although he has. He had a patrol car sit just down the road from the caravan park with instructions to let him know when Maggie drove her car out of it. ‘I just figured you wouldn’t be able to resist. So, go on, how was it?’

She gives a soft laugh. ‘They’re all completely bonkers. But you knew that, didn’t you?’

‘Tried to warn you.’

‘I’ve dealt with worse. Actually, there were a couple of things that came up. Have you got a minute?’

‘Sorry, you’re breaking up. Say that again.’

‘I need to ask you something. Perhaps I can call you when I get home?’

‘I can barely hear a word. What are you up to? Have you eaten yet?’

A second of silence. ‘Are you asking me out?’

‘I live above the Crown in the square in Wells. I’m about to go down and get some dinner. Why don’t you come and join me?’

‘Reception seems to have improved, have you noticed?’

‘You’re probably on top of a hill. You’ll lose it again in a minute. They do a very good fish pie. And great burgers. Also, an early turkey dinner with all the trimmings if you’re up for it.’

‘What if I’m vegetarian?’

‘They’ll rustle you up some beans on toast. But you’re not.’

‘How would you know about my eating habits? And, you know what, I can hear you perfectly.’

‘There was chicken defrosting in your kitchen when I came round. What? Did you say something? I’m getting really bad static.’

‘I’ll be with you in twenty minutes, Detective. Order me the fish pie.’

She is late, as he’d known she would be. He knows that road in all weathers, all traffic conditions. When she walks in, blue hair windswept, cheeks bright pink with the cold, the conversation in the bar lulls. Condensation has formed on the wine glass he has waiting for her. She gives it a quizzical look.

‘Recycling bins just outside the cloakroom,’ he tells her. ‘You seem to favour Sauvignon Blanc.’

‘I don’t drink when I’m driving.’

‘That’s 125 millilitres. Even someone of your size will stay under the limit. Trust me, I used to be a traffic cop.’

She sits. Her coat stays on. She lifts the glass. When she puts it down again, the level has significantly reduced. ‘Thanks, I needed that.’