Daisy in Chains(73)

Today, his self-possession is annoying. A man in his position has no business being smug. ‘I have quite enough exercising my brain, thank you, without your withholding information.’

The amusement leaves his mouth, not his eyes.

‘How?’ she asks. ‘How did you know him?’

‘First answer me this. Is he trying to get close to you? Personally, I mean.’

‘He’s asked me much the same thing about you.’

Wolfe looks around, at the small, square, dull room, empty apart from the table and chairs. ‘He has a little more room to manoeuvre than I do.’

‘Yes, I think he’s interested. But he’s not long gone through a bad break-up. I think he’s vulnerable to any half-decent woman who’ll talk to him right now.’

Somewhere, not too far away, is the sound of someone yelling. It has an authoritative ring about it, she thinks it’s probably a guard.

‘Are you pretending to like him to get information? Because if you are, I’m fine with it.’

‘Maybe I’m not pretending. Maybe I do like him.’

Wolfe laughs, and this line of conversation has gone far enough.

‘How do you know him?’

Now he looks almost bored. ‘Perfectly commonplace circumstances. We played football for Keynsham Athletic first team for three seasons. I played left midfield, he was centre back. Sports teams usually socialize after matches, so I got to know him.’

Wolfe and Weston had practically been mates. That made a massive difference. ‘He should have told me that,’ she admits.

‘Of course he should. Sports teams. Shared changing rooms. Skin and hair left lying around on towels. The opportunities to collect someone else’s DNA are multitude. All he had to do was find a towel the same as mine and swap them.’

He has been building up to this for some time, she realizes now. Waiting for the right moment.

‘Daisy the Dalmatian went to matches with me sometimes. Lots of the guys used to pet her.’

Daisy’s hairs on one of the bodies. How easy would it be, to run a hand over a friendly dog’s head and then later, when you were alone, to look down at the short, fine, black and white hairs on the sleeve of your coat?

‘We gave each other lifts to away matches. I can’t specifically remember Pete being in my car, but it has to be a possibility.’

The car carpet fibres, also found on Jessie’s body. Can I stick my bag in your boot, Hamish?

‘Hold on, wait a minute. He wouldn’t be allowed to work on the case if you and he were friends. He’d have been taken off it immediately.’

Hamish gives her a slow, single nod. ‘Which is exactly what happened. After the arrest, he took a back seat while all the evidence was gathered and sorted. I’m sure he was still involved, but he and I didn’t come into contact. I didn’t see him from the night of the arrest to my first day in court. A woman called Liz Nuttall took the lead on interviewing me.’

‘Could he have got into your house?’ She says it without thinking, because this is nonsense.

‘Somebody did. Somebody accessed my computer and borrowed my car.’

At the end of the corridor a heavy metal door slams shut. Footsteps are heard hurrying towards them.

‘Did this come up at the time? I can’t remember seeing anything on the file.’

‘Of course I mentioned it. But the reaction I got was the same one you’re about to give me.’

‘Why?’

‘Exactly. What possible motive could Weston have for wanting to frame me?’

Actually, that was the easy bit. ‘He was panicking. The case was going nowhere. He needed an arrest. Because of everything you’d just told me, he homed in on his football team and, for reasons that are probably only apparent to him, you fitted the bill.’

Wolfe nods at her to go on, like a school teacher guiding a slow pupil. ‘And the problem with that theory is . . .’

‘Too risky. Once the killer struck again, it would be obvious he’d arrested the wrong man.’

‘Unless . . .?’

Unless, Pete himself is the kill—

‘That’s ridiculous. Why on earth would—’

Wolfe lifts up his hands. ‘Why would I? Why would anyone?’

The footsteps in the corridor slow and then stop. There is a brief conversation between the guard outside and the newcomer. Then a new pair of eyes peer in at them.

‘You have a history with fat women.’ Maggie doesn’t look up. She is used to prison guards coming to gawp at her.

Wolfe, who hasn’t turned around, waits until he hears the window in the door closing again. ‘My ex-fiancée is one of the skinniest women you’ll ever meet. Ask my mother for photographs of me with Nancy, who I was seeing for nearly five years before I met Claire. She’d be drowned by size twelve clothes. I like my women lean.’

‘Daisy?’

Again, that closed, reluctant look on his face when Daisy Baron’s name comes up. ‘Daisy was the exception. I fell in love with Daisy in spite of how she looked, not because of it. Had we carried on seeing each other, I’d probably have been on at her to slim down a bit, like the jerk I was in those days.’

‘You never told her that, did you?’

‘What, that I wanted her to lose weight? Christ, no. You didn’t mess with Daisy. I’d have been a bit more—’