Daisy in Chains(27)
‘Thought you might. Food will be five minutes. So, let’s get the work stuff out of the way: what did you want to ask me?’
‘Have you come across someone called Sirocco Silverwood? Almost certainly not her real name.’
He pulls a face. ‘Can’t say I have, but anyone cautioned or charged would have to give their real name, not the one they use when they’re doing the turn at kids’ parties.’
‘I’m not sure you’d want this lady anywhere near young children. She’s either an habitual fantasist or borderline psychotic.’
Pete sips his pint while Maggie fills him in on her short, but weird, conversation with the woman claiming to be Hamish Wolfe’s true love.
‘She’s not the only one,’ he says when she’s done. ‘Wolfe gets more mail than the rest of Parkhurst put together. Anything else?’
‘Yes, a possible sighting of the real killer, carrying a body into Rill Cavern after Hamish had been arrested.’
He puts his glass down.
‘And now I have your full attention.’ She’s watching him, bright blue eyes combing his face for anything he might give away. He says nothing, but finds Google Earth on his iPad and sets it to show the relevant area around Cheddar. He takes his time, does a couple of mental calculations, then shakes his head at her.
‘It’s fifty metres from Gossam Cave, where Odi and Broon were camping, out to Rill Cavern where they allegedly saw someone carrying Myrtle’s body.’
‘It’s too far, isn’t it?’
‘Almost certainly. In the dark, only one witness, the other asleep. And I know those two.’
‘Odi and Broon?’
He reaches out for his pint. ‘Yeah, they sleep rough in the square here sometimes. They drink to keep out the cold. Can’t blame them, but it doesn’t make them reliable witnesses.’
‘Will you talk to them?’
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Yes,’ he adds, when the look on her face says she’s not sure she believes him.
The food arrives, the bustle of the waiter interrupts their conversation for a few minutes. Pete nods at the food. ‘I’d eat it while it’s hot.’
She doesn’t need telling twice, tucking in with enthusiasm. ‘I’ve been reading up on the Wolfe case,’ she says.
He becomes conscious of a tightening in his chest. ‘Why am I not surprised?’
‘When did you know you had him?’
Pete has answered this question many times. ‘We had the means of identifying our killer when we found hair and carpet fibres on Jessie Tout’s body. The hairs especially. Canine DNA is as unique as its human equivalent. At some time close to the point of her death, Jessie came into contact with Wolfe’s Dalmatian, Daisy.’
‘But at the time, you didn’t know which dog?’
‘No, it was the sighting of Wolfe’s car at the petrol station that really did for him. Once Ahmed the cashier put two and two together and checked the CCTV footage, it was all over.’
‘No trace of Myrtle in the car though?’
‘He’d had time to clean it.’ Pete finishes his food and puts his fork down. ‘So, are you his new lawyer? Do you and I have to become sworn enemies?’
‘I’m sure that wouldn’t be necessary, but no. That weird and wonderful bunch have nothing. I doubt I’ll hear from any of them again.’
Chapter 18
THE LETTER IS waiting for Maggie when she gets back. This one, for the first time, has been directly addressed, rather than sent via her agent. This one looks different. The stamp, HMP Isle of Wight, for one, isn’t quite the same as on his previous correspondence. The paper is different too. So is the handwriting. It was posted two days ago.
Chapter 19
THE LAVATORIES AND slopping-out rooms in older prisons can be miserable places and Parkhurst, on the Isle of Wight, has its moments. On bad days, the sinks, the urinals, even the lavatories get blocked and overflow, sending a stream of evil-smelling swill across the already filthy tiled floor.
Most guys hold their breath and get done as quickly as possible, which isn’t easy, because there are always hordes of other guys trying to do exactly the same thing.
Not today, though. Today, Hamish Wolfe is alone. And afraid.
This should not have taken him by surprise. His first mistake. None of the officers on the corridor just now looked him in the eye. He should have known then. He should have realized when every other occupant of the room slipped out. Too late. The bloke in the doorway, a massive hulk of tattooed flesh, is blocking his way out and he hasn’t come alone. Behind him, Wolfe can see two other figures. In the corridor, silence. The sound of waiting.
Sex offenders rarely stay healthy and whole in mainstream prison. First to be picked off by the pack are the delicate, precious bits – the eyes, ears, genitals. Then they go for the essentials – kidneys, gut, brain. A lucky nonce doesn’t survive the first major attack on him in a mainstream prison, because if he lives through it he’s likely to be blind, toothless and pissing through a tube for the rest of his life.
Technically, Wolfe isn’t a sex offender. If he were, he’d be ‘on the numbers’, safe in a segregated wing. Nothing has been proven about how his supposed victims died, or what happened to them in the hours leading up to their deaths, but kill three, possibly four women and you’re going to get labelled a sadistic, sexual predator. That’s just the way it goes.