Daisy in Chains(47)

Around the gym, eyes are fixed on the reeling pair in the middle. The Muslim boy is winning. He’s smaller but faster, aiming his blows just beneath his opponent’s ribcage. One accurately delivered body-punch in that spot can stop a fighter. Repeated body-punches will wear any fighter down. His opponent, white, heavier, tattooed, is struggling to do anything other than fend off the blows.

In the corner of the gym, tucked away behind some five-a-side goalposts that won’t be needed again until spring, is a canvas equipment bag the exact colour of Maggie’s hair. Blue hair? He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected her to be quite so beautiful.

A gossamer light spray of red mist forms in the air above the fighters. The Muslim boy staggers. The spectators yelp like hyenas circling prey and the fighters crash into the goalposts. Wolfe looks around, nervously.

The noise level builds. Inmates in their cells who can see nothing of what’s going on yell encouragement all the same. Many will have a bet on the outcome, even if they can’t afford the premium to watch. At the end of the corridor, those guards on weekend night duty stare at TV screens and turn up the volume. Wolfe looks at his watch. Three minutes and twelve seconds. Longer than many fights. These two are evenly matched. It could go on for some time longer. The injuries could be beyond his ability to patch up.

Maggie had been one of the last of the visitors to leave the visiting hall. He’d sat and watched her walk away, her shoulders tense, conscious of being observed but never once looking back. She’d disappeared, a flicker of white in the doorway, and he’d been overwhelmed by a feeling that he’d never see her again. That one visit would sate her curiosity.

The Muslim is back on top. He’s holding the white boy by the hair, hammering punches up into his chin. White boy kicks out and misses. The flesh of his face is bouncing in time with the blows. Already it looks red, swollen, as though its insides are bursting through the skin.

The crowd senses victory is close. The bookmaker’s eyes have narrowed. White boy is down on the stained tiles. He holds up his hand. It’s over. He gets one last kick from his opponent, a torrent of abuse from those who have lost money on him, and then people start to slink away back to their cells.

The winner staggers to a corner where his supporters look after him. Wolfe kneels down by the loser. The boy, younger than he realized, has lost consciousness. Wolfe checks his breathing, his pulse.

‘Tyler.’ Wolfe finds an unmarked spot on the boy’s cheek and slaps it. ‘Talk to me, Tyler, can you hear me?’

‘Stand back, Doc, we need to get him out of here.’

‘I don’t know how badly he’s hurt. You can’t move him.’

But they can, and they do. Three men hoist him up and carry him out. Wolfe and Phil follow, bringing their towels, their buckets, their bandages.

Behind them, the gym door closes and is locked. Neither looks back, because it doesn’t do to know the guards who are in on this, who allow fight club to happen.

The corridor is empty. Tyler and his supporters have vanished into one of the cells. Finding them won’t be hard. All Wolfe and Phil need to do is follow the blood.





Chapter 36


From the office of

MAGGIE ROSE

The Rectory, Norton Stown, Somerset

Friday, 11 December 2015

Dear Mr Wolfe,

There is nothing I can do for you. The case against you is as sound as any I’ve seen and you gave me nothing yesterday that hasn’t already been speculated upon endlessly and fruitlessly by those who campaign for your release.

That effort, I’m sure you know, is driven by your own personal charisma rather than any conviction as to your innocence. People want to believe in you because you are handsome and capable of being charming; and what people want to believe in, they usually do.

I can’t believe this will come as a surprise to you. I had no sense, yesterday, of your taking our meeting seriously. I was a diversion for you, a brief entertainment. I don’t blame you for that, but I have neither the time nor inclination to indulge you further, I’m afraid.

Yours sincerely,

Maggie Rose





Chapter 37





Chapter 38


‘SHE’S GOING AGAIN.’

Glass trembles in the door frame as Latimer doesn’t break stride, bears down upon Pete and slaps paper on to his desk. Liz, who’s been perched on its edge, slides off and backs away.

Pete picks up the printed email from a member of the Isle of Wight prison management team letting Latimer know that Hamish Wolfe has sent out another visiting order to Maggie Rose.

‘Doesn’t mean she’ll accept it.’ Pete catches Liz’s eye across the room.

‘She already has.’ Latimer scrunches the email, throws it and misses the waste bin. ‘Pick that up, someone.’

‘One visit, you said.’ Latimer is talking to Pete as though it is his personal responsibility. ‘Tick the box, you said.’

Pete lifts up both hands. ‘What can I say? She told me she thinks he’s guilty. That he can stay where he is. And this was after she met him.’

‘Well, he’s got to her somehow. Which means we have to up our game. All of us.’ Latimer looks around the room, then back at Pete. ‘Go through that file again. Think how she thinks. Second-guess what she’s going to do. In fact, put your own application in. Go and see him.’