Daisy in Chains(6)

‘But what I can do is advise. And I advise you to have nothing to do with Sandra Wolfe, or the Wolfe Pack, or whatever that bunch of idiots are calling themselves this week. And I certainly advise you to have nothing to do – ever – with Hamish Wolfe.’

‘If you’re advising me, Detective, why am I feeling threatened?’

She hasn’t moved. She’s still curled up like a cat in the large armchair. He can’t imagine anyone looking less threatened.

On a sudden whim, Pete moves to the window. The garden is huge and the few colours visible through the frost are dull and muted. The lawn that stretches out from the back door is the opaque white of chalk and the high brick walls, the line of mature trees, the dense shrubs all seem to conspire to keep out sunlight.

‘Do you live here alone, Miss Rose?’

There is movement in the glass’s reflection as Maggie Rose gets to her feet behind him. Her weird hair and pale face materialize behind his shoulder.

‘That feeling of being threatened has not gone away,’ she says.

‘I apologize. Really not my intention.’ He turns to face her. ‘Before her son was arrested, Sandra Wolfe was probably a perfectly nice, middle-class Somerset lady, working part-time, having friends round for dinner, eating at the golf club on Saturday evenings. But we all know what female animals are capable of when their young are threatened.’

‘I just thought her very unhappy, but I’ll bear in mind what you say.’

She turns and he has little choice but to follow her from the room. In the hall, he looks around for signs of someone else in the house, but the doors are all still closed.

‘The pressure group are another story,’ he says. ‘None of them were ever normal, in my view. Several have either a minor criminal record or a history of psychiatric problems. Most are unemployed, or under employed. They have very little in their lives so, to fill the gap, they give themselves a cause. And having got one, they’re pursuing it with a great deal of conviction. Individually, they might not be too much of a problem, but they wind each other up and egg each other on.’

At the front door she turns to face him. ‘I’m familiar with the idea. It’s called group-think.’

‘Yeah, well it’s at work here. So, I’d advise you to review your security arrangements. Make sure the locks are solid, fit a few security lights, if you haven’t got them already, and keep a chain on your door. These people know where you live.’

There is a softening in her face that makes him think, for a second, that she might be about to smile. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

He takes the opportunity to glance up the stairs. No one on the landing. ‘Please do,’ he says. ‘But above all, don’t be tempted to have anything to do with Hamish Wolfe. I’ve looked into that man’s eyes, and trust me, there isn’t anything human there. Wolfe isn’t a man, Miss Rose. He’s a monster.’

She smiles. Properly this time. Her mouth is wider than he’d realized, her pale lips fuller. She has neat, small white teeth. ‘I’ve heard he’s quite the ladies’ man.’

‘They often are. That’s why they manage to kill so many.’

‘Do you know what, that does interest me. Not the fact that he was popular before he was arrested. He’s a good-looking man, there’s nothing remarkable in that. What fascinates me is the number of women who, by all accounts, write to him in prison. Why would they do that, do you think?’

‘All notorious killers have a fan club,’ he says.

‘Fascinating.’ She’s still smiling as she reaches for the lock. ‘That would, actually, make a very interesting book. If I had the time, which I don’t.’

‘Wolfe wouldn’t be interested in you, I’m afraid,’ Pete says.

They swap places in the doorway and he catches a whiff of the odd, chemical smell of her hair.

‘Why’s that?’

He makes a point of looking her up and down. ‘You’re about four stone short of his preferred body weight. Thank you for your time.’

The door closes before he’s taken three steps down the path. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t pause, even though his phone starts ringing when he reaches the gate. He climbs into his car, shuts out the cold, and checks his phone. It is one of his detective constables, thirty-four-year-old Liz Nuttall. He presses Accept. ‘Talk to me, Nutty.’

‘You made it out, then?’ she says. ‘How’d it go?’

‘She’s not what I was expecting, that’s for sure. Seems to be pretty cool on the Wolfe front. No real interest in engaging with Sandra Wolfe further.’

‘Could she be faking it? By the way, Latimer’s been asking for you. I told him you were at a meeting at County Hall about the schools’ drugs outreach programme.’

‘Nice one.’ Their boss, DCI Latimer, will expect no feedback from a meeting at County Hall. He makes no secret of the fact that bureaucracy bores him.

‘Listen, Nuts, do me a favour, will you? Run a check on The Rectory.’ He glances sideways at the big old house he’s just left. ‘Electoral roll, utilities, you know the sort of thing. Rose was talking to someone while I was in there but did a good job of keeping whoever it was out of sight. As though she really didn’t want me to know she wasn’t on her own.’