Daisy in Chains(5)

While he’s been looking round – he’s a copper, he can’t help himself – Rose has curled into an armchair close to an Aga. Her slippers are enormous, furry boots. Blue, like her hair.

‘Have a seat.’

He sneaks a glance at the laptop on the central table as he pulls out a chair, but the screensaver has kicked in to show constantly changing scenes of Arctic wastelands: massive snowdrifts, ice formations, blue ice.

‘Can I just confirm that you are Maggie Rose?’

‘I am. Will this take long? And does politeness demand that I offer you coffee?’

‘That’s your call, Miss Rose. I’m here because I understand you had a visit from Sandra Wolfe yesterday.’

She nods her head as she speaks. ‘She came here first, from what I understand, but didn’t make herself known. By her own admission she followed me to the beach and spoke to me there.’

Maggie Rose has a measured way of speaking, of choosing each word carefully, as though addressing an audience.

‘Can I ask what was the nature of the conversation?’

‘I expect you can guess.’

‘Indulge me.’

‘She wants me to take on her son’s case, to get her beloved child – in whose innocence she genuinely believes, by the way – out of prison.’

‘What did you tell her?’

Rose blinks. Her eyelashes are dark, but he can’t see the clogging gloop of mascara. ‘May I ask you a question first?’

‘Shoot.’

‘How did you know she and I had met?’

‘We monitor the website she and a few of her friends run. There’s a chat room that’s publicly accessible. She – Sandra Wolfe, I’m talking about now – was telling another member of the group that she’d met you.’

‘Then you probably already know the answer I gave her.’

Well, she had him there. ‘She’ll try again,’ he says. ‘Sandra Wolfe is not a woman who gives up easily. Next time, she might not bother waiting on the beach, she might knock on your door. She might bring some of her friends with her. She’s a woman grieving, Miss Rose. She believes her son has been stitched up and women like that aren’t always stable.’

Rose wriggles in the armchair, pulling her heels back against her bottom. ‘So you’re here out of concern for me?’

‘I’m here because while this group of people – who, frankly, I’d like to refer to as nutters and misfits, but that’s a bit judgemental and not very PC so I’ll just call them misguided individuals – can do whatever they like in their own time, I don’t want them bothering or even frightening ordinary members of the public.’

She holds eye contact. ‘I wasn’t frightened.’

‘No, I don’t expect you were.’

‘And you’re lying to me.’

He gives an exaggerated start. ‘Come again?’

‘You’re not here out of concern. You’re here because you don’t want me to take on Hamish Wolfe. You don’t want me digging up old details, finding your mistakes, holding you to account. Putting Hamish Wolfe away was the greatest success of your career – it was you, wasn’t it? I remember your name in the newspapers – and you can’t bear the thought of someone overturning that conviction.’

Pete feels his heartbeat starting to race. ‘We didn’t make mistakes. Hamish Wolfe is guilty.’

‘Everyone makes mistakes. Even Hamish Wolfe. That’s why you caught him. And for what it’s worth, I agree with you. I have no plans to take on his case.’

She moves again, lowering her feet to the floor. ‘But let me be very clear, Detective,’ she says. ‘If I were to decide to do so, no amount of pressure on your part would put me off.’

He stands before she has a chance to. ‘Would you mind if I used your toilet? Cold day, too much coffee, I’m afraid.’

She nods towards a door behind him. ‘That will take you into the rear hall. The door immediately opposite is the downstairs cloakroom.’

‘Thanks.’ He leaves the room, conscious of her eyes following him. To his right is the back door of the house and through its glass he can see a double garage. The downstairs loo is a small room, plain and functional. To his left is another door.

The sound of voices, low-pitched but unmistakable, comes from the kitchen he’s just left.

When he returns to the kitchen, Maggie Rose is leaning over the table, staring at her laptop. She is alone. She closes down the screen, but not before he’s spotted his own name on it.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I suppose I’ve taken enough of your time.’

She says nothing, but slips back into the armchair, this time tucking her legs inside the sweater. There is something very childlike about the way she sits. Were it not for the tiny lines on her face, she might even look like a child.

He takes one step towards the door. ‘I’m sorry Sandra Wolfe approached you. I’m sorry you’ve been pestered with letters from Wolfe himself. We found that out on the website as well. I wish I could offer to do something about the inconvenience and disturbance that must have caused, but I can’t, I’m afraid. These people are free to do what they like within the law.’

‘I understand the law well enough, thank you.’