Daisy in Chains(90)

‘Pete, I didn’t thank you for last night. For sending that constable round to the fairground.’

‘I won’t do it again.’

She is smiling. ‘Yes, you will.’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘Thank you.’ She puts the phone down gently. ‘You will,’ she says to herself.





Chapter 89


HAMISH SAYS, ‘I’M glad you’re OK, but I don’t want you taking any more risks for me.’

‘I think I can safely promise you to avoid poorly maintained fairground rides in the middle of winter. And, who knows, your favourite detective might find something at Sarah Smith’s flat that links her to Odi and Broon’s murders.’ Maggie stops, wondering what could realistically be found by the police at Sirocco’s flat. And whether she might be a possible suspect in the Wolfe murders. ‘You might want to tell your parents to steer clear of her, though,’ she says. ‘Just in case she gets bail.’

He reaches down below the table.

‘Something I thought you might be interested in.’ Hamish is holding out a soft-covered book, A4 size, about a centimetre thick. ‘I had Mum bring it in. It’s our yearbook from Magdalen College. Here you go.’

He turns it to face her. She is looking at a photograph of students gathered for the Commem Ball. It is early in the evening, because the sky is still light and the revellers pristine and fresh. It is the same photograph that, cropped down, was used by the media during Hamish’s trial. Hamish is in white tie, the most formal of evening dress, and is with a group of similarly dressed men and glamorous young women. The woman on his arm, though, is different from the others.

Her hair is dark and thick, swept up on to the top of her head. It will curl down past her shoulders when loose. Her eyes are big and brown. Her nose large and angular, her teeth slightly overlapping. Her skin is lily pale. She’s wearing black, as large women often do, but the fine fabric flows over her limbs and torso like a silk waterfall. The neckline is a deep V-shape, drawing attention to her large breasts and cleavage. The sleeves are long and slim, made from black lace. Tucked behind one ear is a large, white flower.

‘Daisy,’ Maggie says, feeling a pang of deep sadness. ‘She was gorgeous.’

Hamish sounds a little defensive. ‘Yes, she was.’

She looks him in the eye. ‘You were a fool.’

He doesn’t disagree. ‘So many times, I’ve asked myself, is it too late for Daisy and me. If I were to find her again. What do you think?’

She opens her mouth to say that she has no opinion on the subject, that she couldn’t care less about Daisy, but can’t do it. His eyes are holding her. They are locked in some weird staring competition. She is trying to look away, just can’t quite—

The door shakes in its frame as something hard and heavy slams against it. Wolfe is faster than she, jumping immediately to his feet. He takes the two strides that bring him to the door and peers through the inset window. The door is banged again. Directly outside, someone is swearing.

‘Fuck!’ Wolfe spins round. ‘Get in the corner. Now!’

She hears the words, but they don’t quite make it to the part of her brain that directs movement, because nothing happens.

There is a fight going on outside. She can hear punches, grunts, the rasp of breath. In the distance, maybe on another floor, there is more noise. Wolfe is pressed right up against the window, as though trying to block the view out. Or the view in.

‘Maggie.’ Wolfe is whispering, low and urgent. ‘Get out of sight, now.’

‘What’s happening?’ It is a stupid question. She knows what is happening, can hear it. The guard outside is being beaten up. She can hear the grunts and gasps of someone in pain, the solid thud of heavy bodies crashing around. She has no idea how many are out there. It could be two, or a dozen. She and Hamish are locked in though, aren’t they? They are safe? She pushes her chair back.

One last loud exclamation outside and silence falls. Hamish gestures again for her to move and this time she does, darting to the corner of the room.

Three loud bangs on the door and a shout. ‘Who’s in there?’

Hamish’s grip tightens on the handle. The door is locked. She is repeating it to herself like a mantra. The door is always locked. It’s standard procedure. When she’s ready to leave, she always hears the guard slide back the bolts and turn the key.

The same bolts that are being slid open now.

The door is still locked. The door is still locked.

With the key held by a guard who is likely unconscious or even dead.

‘Wolfe! Is that you in there?’

Move on, she is praying, wreak your havoc elsewhere. Above all, do not search the guard’s unconscious body. Don’t find the—

The key is being turned. The door pushes open a fraction. Wolfe shoves it closed and leans against it. The colour of his face turns quickly from near white to bright pink. He is breathing in short, angry bursts. She should help, surely? Her strength is better than nothing.

‘Maggie, get on the phone.’

Angry that she didn’t think of this sooner, she finds her phone and makes the call. Someone is kicking the door now and Wolfe is losing ground.

A voice on the phone tells her that the situation is known to the police and a response is under way. ‘How long? How long before you get here?’