Daisy in Chains(50)

The corner of his mouth twitches. ‘White isn’t even a colour.’

‘No, it isn’t. Where is Zoe Sykes?’

‘I have no idea. Are your parents still alive?’

‘I lost my mother over a decade ago,’ she says. ‘My father five years after that.’

‘Any close family? Siblings? Secret husband?’

‘No, to all three. What happened to Daisy Baron?’

She sees a start of surprise in his face, but he recovers quickly. ‘I don’t know. She vanished towards the end of the Trinity term.’

‘What was she to you?’

‘Fellow student. Friend. Girlfriend, for much of that first year.’

‘Was her leaving something to do with you?’

His eyes narrow. ‘I never got a chance to ask her.’

Around them, people are getting up and saying goodbye. She waits for Hamish to say something more. He doesn’t.

She is the only visitor still seated. The rest are heading for the door. ‘People believe Daisy is dead. That she was your first victim. Was she?’

‘You’ve had your ten questions, Maggie. More than.’

She waits. He takes a moment before replying. ‘She wasn’t. And I really hope she isn’t. Something warm will slip out of my world if I lose the possibility of ever seeing Daisy again.’

‘Time please, miss. Come on, Hamish, you know the rules.’

They ignore the guard. ‘What do you regret most?’ she asks him.

He grins as she gets to her feet. ‘Getting caught,’ he tells her.





Chapter 42





Chapter 43


IN ONE OF the poorer estates in the Bristol area, the Sykes’s family home is neat and orderly. The single row of paving stones leading to the front door has been kept clean of winter slime. The patch of brown lawn is short. The bins stand to attention on one side of the door. Just behind the still-white net curtains, Maggie can see a row of china ornaments: female figures, in period costume; six of them, each perfectly spaced, each facing at exactly the same angle into the room within.

The sound of her knocking has barely time to fade before the front door opens. Brenda stands facing her. ‘When’s it going to be? When’s he going to show us where Zoe is?’

‘Brenda, I really don’t think you should get your hopes up. Hamish is still claiming he didn’t kill Zoe.’

She follows the older woman to the kitchen. It is a small room, dated, but immaculately tidy.

‘He said, though. He said if you went to see him, he’d show us. Kimberly, make Miss Rose a cup of tea.’

‘I’m afraid he didn’t. That letter was from his mother.’

The muscles around Brenda’s mouth twitch. ‘Effing cow. Kim, use the PG Tips, not that cheap stuff from Lidl. And make sure the cups are clean.’

Maggie looks in a corner of the room to see a thin girl intent upon her mobile phone. Her long fair hair hides her face.

Maggie turns back to the mother. ‘Brenda, do you think Zoe could have had another boyfriend?’

When Brenda shakes her head, she purses up her mouth and chin and the lines of a habitual smoker fan out from her lips like a child’s drawing of a sun. ‘I’d have known. We didn’t have no secrets. Did he tell you anything? About what he did to her? Where he took her? Kim! I won’t tell you again.’

Making no sound, moving so slowly that Maggie can almost imagine the air doesn’t move around her, Kimberly gets up from her chair and crosses to the sink. Her shape is still the skinny, angular one of a child. Her clothes are childish too: plain jeans, a fleece sweatshirt.

‘Zoe’s actions on that last night suggest she was planning to meet someone,’ says Maggie.

‘Do you think they might let me have her boot back? Kim, sniff that milk before you use it, make sure it’s fresh.’

‘I’m sorry, what did you just say?’

‘Her boot. The red cowboy boot, what she were wearing when she was taken. They’ve never let me have it back.’

The cowboy boot, found on the roadside in the gorge, with bloodstains that were matched to Zoe. Her mother wants it back, as though her pain isn’t sharp enough without a tangible reminder of what her daughter went through.

‘I imagine it will be classed as evidence. The police probably need to keep it.’

‘She loved them boots. They were her favourites. She always wore them. They were a present from me. Cost a bloody fortune. I’d really like it back.’

A once expensive, now worthless, item. It is odd, the things that grieving people obsess over. On the kitchen counter, a mobile phone starts ringing. Brenda turns away and reaches for it.

‘Yeah, oh, hiya, Mand, all right?’ As though she’s forgotten Maggie, she wanders out into the hallway just as the teenager turns round, a mug in each hand. She has the trace of an old bruise on her right cheek, just below her eye. Her hands are shaking.

‘I put sugar in.’ She stares at Maggie with wide, pale grey eyes.

‘Thank you.’

‘Not everyone takes sugar. Mum and me both do. It’s habit. I can make you another cup.’

‘It’s fine, thank you. I can drink it with or without sugar.’

Kimberly reaches out, spilling some of the tea on her hand. She puts both mugs down clumsily and turns back to the sink.