I’m fine. Just been allowed to leave. Trying to catch the next ferry. Were any of the inmates hurt, do you know?
Liz has left her own desk and wandered over to join him. Pete holds up his phone to let her read the exchange. She does so, then turns away without a word and goes back to her own computer. Pete passes on the information he has to Maggie. She doesn’t reply.
Chapter 91
WHEN MAGGIE UNLOCKS her door her hands are still shaking, just as they have been for hours now. The day just gone exists for her in a series of freeze-frames: the door of the interview room opening to admit armed police; being escorted out of Parkhurst while looking around every corner for one face; giving a statement at the Isle of Wight police station; declining medical attention; insisting on leaving as soon as she could; steering her car on to the ferry.
In the hours since Wolfe locked her in the interview room, she has existed in a mental vacuum. She cannot think about what has happened. Or where she goes from here.
Another text message arrives. Pete is trying to get in touch with her, has been all afternoon and evening. She types out a reply:
Going straight to bed. I’ll be in touch.
Later that evening, the phone rings. For several seconds she stares at it from across the room. It will say, number withheld, because calls from prison always do.
‘It’s me,’ he says.
‘I know.’ She sighs down the line.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ She is not. She has never been further from fine and she knows that he knows it.
‘Good. When will I see you again?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She struggles for something appropriate to say. ‘I’m getting to the end of my search of the industrial estates. Just a few more to check. If I find anything, I’ll be in touch right away.’
‘Then I’ll have to hope you do.’
Silence falls again.
‘What happened today, Maggie?’ he asks her.
He isn’t talking about the riot. ‘It was the shock,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘I wasn’t thinking at all. That’s the effect you have on me.’
A lump is solidifying in her throat. She feels an urge to slam down the receiver, to end the call. At the same time, she wants it to go on for ever.
‘It can’t happen again,’ she manages. ‘I am not one of your prison groupies. I can’t be your lawyer and some sort of screwed-up girlfriend.’
His voice drops to a whisper. ‘So be my lawyer. Get me out of here. Then we’ll talk.’
She presses the receiver close to her mouth and remembers the warm, plump lips she held there just hours earlier. She longs for him to say something more. Just one more thing. And then he does.
‘There is no room in my head for anything but you, Maggie Rose.’
Wolfe gets just four minutes. Everyone needs the phone tonight. Families will have seen reports about the riot on the news and will be anxious to talk to loved ones. The queue stretches down the corridor. He hands the receiver over to the next man in line and makes his way back to his room. Crusher is waiting for him, his narrow grey eyes gleaming.
Wolfe looks him in the eye. ‘So, did anybody get hurt?’
‘Couple of bruises. Split lips. Some guys will be in solitary for a few days but they’ll live. Work all right?’
Wolfe thinks back to the terrified woman in his arms. He remembers her arms going round his neck, her lips pressing against his. He holds up a hand to high-five the other bloke and grins. ‘Yeah. Good job, mate. I owe you.’
Chapter 92
The Sunday Times Magazine, Sunday, 17 August 2014
ONE DAY, ONE LIFETIME
Solicitor Rebecca Singer, who married her client, convicted murderer Jonathan Evans, in 2012, describes her typical day.
I get up early, and go out running before my son wakes at about 6 a.m. I find I need this regular discipline now that so much of my life is out of my control. I’m home in time to fix myself a fresh juice breakfast and then Jack, two, is up and it’s non-stop until I drop him off at nursery.
Jonathan tries to ring in the mornings. A lot of the other inmates sleep late, or just don’t get moving too quickly, so early in the day is when he has most chance of getting to a phone. We talk for ten to fifteen minutes and I always make sure he and Jack exchange at least a couple of words. Jack needs to know the sound of his father’s voice.