Daisy in Chains(4)
A convicted murderer has sent her a rose.
Chapter 2
The Times Online, Monday, 8 September 2014
CONTROVERSY IN COURT AS WOLFE TRIAL OPENS
Accused surgeon, Hamish Wolfe, refused to enter a plea on the first day of his trial at the Old Bailey today. In accordance with English law, he will now be tried as if he had pleaded not guilty.
Dressed in a dark grey suit, white shirt and blue tie, Wolfe appeared to be paying close attention to proceedings, but when asked to speak, he remained silent, in spite of the judge, Mr Justice Peters, on three occasions, advising him that it was not in his interests to do so.
Up until the time of his arrest, Wolfe was a leading cancer surgeon, one of the most highly regarded young doctors in the south-west. He was an active sportsman, a rugby and hockey player, experienced and talented at both climbing rock faces and crawling beneath them. He held a pilot’s licence. Generally considered a very handsome man, he seemed blessed with a loving family and a wide circle of friends. He had just announced his engagement to celebrity model Claire Cole. Today, he faces four counts of abduction and murder. If convicted, he is likely to spend the rest of his life in prison.
The disappearances of four young women between June 2012 and November 2013 sparked one of the biggest police investigations ever conducted by Avon and Somerset police, but it was a lucky break on the part of Detective Constable Peter Weston that led to Wolfe’s arrest in December 2013.
Refusal to plead is rare but usually indicates a desire, on the part of the accused, to decline to recognize the authority of the court. Interestingly, three separate psychiatric reports commissioned by the Crown Prosecution Service were submitted incompletely, giving rise to speculation that Wolfe may be unfit to plead and to stand trial. The detective who arrested him, though, emphatically disagreed when the suggestion was put to him.
‘Absolute rubbish,’ commented Weston, since promoted to Detective Sergeant. ‘Wolfe understands perfectly well what’s going on and is more than capable of entering a plea. He’s playing games with us. It’s what he does.’
The case of the Crown v. Hamish Wolfe will continue tomorrow.
(Maggie Rose: case file 004/TT8914 Hamish Wolfe)
Chapter 3
‘I’VE REALLY GOT to go. Why don’t you discuss it with Tim?’
‘There is no f*cking way—’
The line goes dead. Detective Sergeant Pete Weston starts to count. One, two, three – no, he isn’t going to make it to double figures. Not this time.
His eyes slide to the passenger seat where a gold wristwatch lies like tossed litter. He picks it up, wondering at the ability of gold to retain its warmth, even on days like this, and looks at it for a second or two.
Well, it’s never going to fit him.
He gets out of the car, still livid, and pops open the boot, hardly noticing the minuscule ice shards that stab his exposed skin. The wheel wrench is cold in the way that gold never is. He drops the watch to the pavement and strikes it once with the wrench.
He gathers three pieces, doesn’t bother collecting all the shattered bits of the face, and drops them into an evidence bag from the glove compartment. His hands are stiffening with cold by this point, but he takes up his phone.
Found your watch, he types. Must have got caught on the seat runner. Might be repairable. I’ll give it to Tim.
Domestic arrangements sorted, he can get on with the job.
He pushes open the iron gate and crunches his way up the path, through an avenue of frozen laurel bushes. The garden is long and narrow. Tall trees grow behind the early Georgian rectory, curving around it, sheltering it like a protective parent. There are large windows to either side of the front door and Weston feels as though he can describe, without seeing them, the elegant, spacious rooms beyond with their high, carved ceilings and limewashed walls.
There is neither bell nor knocker on the red-varnished door, just an old-fashioned brass bell that he swings to produce a deep, sonorous clanging. He waits, for thirty seconds, maybe a minute, until he hears the sound of a chain being removed, of a lock being turned.
Warm air wafts out as the door opens and a woman is standing directly in front of him, the raised step bringing her face on to a level with his.
‘Miss Rose? Maggie Rose?’
He feels that momentary loss of control at being taken by surprise. Every copper in the land has heard of Maggie Rose: defence barrister, true-crime author, pain-in-the-police-force’s-collective-arse, but few have met her. She doesn’t do interviews, has never released a photograph.
She is probably the right side of forty and slim enough to look fragile, even in the oversized white woollen sweater that reaches almost to her thighs. She has small features in a sharp, very pale face. Her eyes are blue.
So is her hair.
‘What can I do for you, Detective?’ she says.
Not just the blue rinse of a genteel elderly lady. Not just the half-hearted blue streaks that are sometimes seen amongst the crowds at the Glastonbury Festival. This is bright, turquoise-blue, waving gently to a little below her chin.
He has no idea how she knows that he’s with the police.
‘Detective Sergeant Pete Weston.’ He holds up his warrant card. ‘I was hoping to have a few minutes of your time.’
‘Come inside for a moment.’
He follows her down a pale green corridor, past panelled doors that are firmly closed. The kitchen they enter is large, painted shades of cream and pale gold.