Daisy in Chains(9)

I suggest that giving this interview might let the cat out of the bag on that one, but he just shrugs. I get the feeling he is unmoved by the adoration of women he will probably never meet. He responds to very few, he says, only the ones who strike him as being intelligent and sensible, and then usually just to thank them for their good wishes. Many of his letters he gives to fellow inmates, particularly the lewder ones.

When I question the morality of doing so, he looks at me sharply. His green eyes narrow and for the first time I remember that I’m in the presence of a convicted killer.

‘If a man sent you his boxer shorts,’ he says, ‘along with a note telling you he’d worn them two days in a row and then masturbated in them, what would you do?’

‘Bin them,’ I respond. ‘Throw them out.’ I’m a little unnerved by this stage. Wolfe and I are alone in a windowless room. He is cuffed to the table but he is a powerfully built man and very close to me.

‘I did that,’ he tells me. ‘The guys started fishing them out, so now I just save them the trouble.’

I ask him if most of the letters he receives are sexual in nature. ‘A lot are,’ he admits. ‘Some of them want to know what I’m supposed to have done to the victims. Those are the most disturbing, if I’m honest. These women don’t care whether I’m guilty or not. They’re actually hoping I am and that I can give them salacious details. Others ask if Parkhurst permits conjugal visits. It doesn’t, by the way. Mostly, the women who write to me are lonely, even if they already have families. They’re desperate to reach out to someone, to have that special connection. They see me as a bit of a soft touch. I’m not going anywhere.’

At this point, Wolfe smiles at me, and I’m suddenly far more afraid of him than I was when he was being less than charming.

‘Not immediately, anyway,’ he concludes.

(Maggie Rose: case file 00326/5 Hamish Wolfe)





Chapter 6




PROPERTY OF AVON AND SOMERSET POLICE. Ref: 544/45.2 Hamish Wolfe.





Chapter 7


THE CID ROOM at Portishead police station is unusually quiet for a weekday morning, thanks to an armed hold-up and two muggings in Bristol city centre last night. For now, only Pete, Liz Nuttall and Sunday Sadik, a rotund, disgustingly cheerful man, are in the room.

Liz is staring at her computer screen. ‘Shane Ridley drowned his wife in the bath,’ she says, ‘before hacking her body into pieces to dispose of it. The jury took less than an hour to convict him. Maggie Rose, however, has supposedly found evidence that Lara Ridley was having an affair – or affairs – with person or persons unknown. She’s arguing that one of the lovers killed her.’

From directly behind Liz’s chair, Pete can see the photograph of Ridley’s wife, Lara. Mid twenties, blonde, beautiful.

‘So, not only was she murdered, the world is being told she was a whore,’ Liz goes on. ‘Ridley’s appeal is coming up in two months and is expected to be successful. Lara’s father had a stress-related heart attack last month and her mother is on antidepressants.’

Sunday, who will never stand up if he can avoid it, glides over on his wheeled office chair, catching himself inches before he collides with Pete’s legs.

‘Steve Lampton beat up and strangled three women he met on internet dating sites.’ Liz has opened another screen. ‘Except he didn’t, according to Maggie Rose, who got him off in 2007. He received nearly half a million in compensation and, rumour has it, his lawyer got 40 per cent of that.’

‘Gwent police never looked for anyone else in connection with those murders,’ Pete adds.

‘Nigel Upton was her second big success.’ Liz is on a roll now. ‘He got out in 2008. His claim for compensation was settled out of court but it was believed to be big.’ She looks back over her shoulder. ‘So, if anyone was wondering how she can afford that big, f*ck-off house of hers, there’s your answer.’

Sunday’s desk phone rings. He shoves his chair in its direction and picks it up.

‘She’s a vampire,’ Liz says.

‘She’s in reception,’ Sunday says. ‘Want me to go get her?’

Pete stands upright. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll let Latimer know first.’ As he steps away from Liz’s desk, he knocks over her bag, spilling some of its contents. He bends down, but Sunday has jumped out of his chair ahead of him.

‘Something you want to tell us, Liz?’ Sunday is holding up a copy of Brides magazine.

Liz blushes scarlet and can’t look at Pete. ‘It’s for a friend,’ she says. ‘Like I’d be that dumb again.’

Pete pulls open the chief’s door. ‘Maggie Rose is here,’ he says. ‘She’s down in reception.’

DCI Tim Latimer closes the file he’s been reading and puts it away in the pulled-out drawer. He switches his phone to answer-machine mode and adjusts the angle between the only other objects on the desk. Two photographs. Getting to his feet, he lifts his jacket from the back of the chair and shakes out imaginary creases.

‘Better bring her up,’ he says at last. ‘Brenda’s already in MR 3, I take it?’

‘She is. With the FLO.’

Latimer is several inches taller than Pete and has a habit of standing just a little too close, of looking down his nose. ‘Don’t forget your jacket,’ he says.