‘I saw her last night,’ Pete says. ‘She said nothing about going to see him. In fact she said the opposite.’ He takes another drag, wondering how he feels about the news. The warm, stale air of the station hits him as he goes back inside and he still doesn’t know.
‘You saw her last night?’ Sunday is following close behind.
Pete lets him catch up. ‘Are we sure? How does Latimer know?’
‘Contact at Parkhurst. Lets him know everyone who visits Wolfe. So, you saw her last night?’
‘We had dinner. Followed by a walk around the Bishop’s Palace in the moonlight. Her suggestion.’ He looks down at Sunday’s expectant face. ‘She drove herself home at eleven.’
‘Goodnight kiss?’
‘What are we, twelve-year-old girls?’
Like he’d dare try to kiss Maggie Rose. If she didn’t slap him, his lips would freeze on her face. There had been something there, last night, though, he was sure of it. Not a melting, exactly. More like, a softening. The way snow loses some of its crispness when the sun shines on it.
Latimer is at his desk. When Pete opens the door without knocking he looks up, frowning. ‘Pete. Come in. Shut the door.’
Pete gives Sunday a tight-lipped smile of apology and slips inside the boss’s office.
Latimer sniffs. ‘You been smoking?’
‘You sound like Annabelle.’
Latimer sighs. ‘Save it, Pete, I’m not in the mood right now. Have you read this?’
Pete pulls out a chair and sits down, picking up the press cutting Latimer has just pushed in his direction. He sees the headline, Love’s Labours Losing?
‘Yep,’ he says, shoving it back across the desk.
‘Maggie Rose doesn’t care about justice.’ Latimer stabs his forefinger down on a line of text. ‘Just in proving how fucking clever she is.’
‘I’m sure the Independent on Sunday didn’t say “fucking”.’
‘I want to know every single loophole in the Wolfe case,’ Latimer says.
‘Don’t you mean flaw? Shortcoming, perhaps? Chink, maybe?’
‘Don’t get clever, Pete, you’re on thin ice right now.’
‘There are no problems with the case against Wolfe. It’s solid.’
‘So why has Maggie Rose taken it on?’
‘Who says she has?’
‘She’s going to see him. Why else would she do that? She’s been spending time with his mother, with that pack of mad bastards who call themselves the Wool Pack or something. Why would she do that, if she wasn’t taking him on as a client?’
‘Maggie has told me repeatedly that she wants nothing to do with Wolfe. I spent the evening with her last night and she said nothing to make me think she’s changed her mind.’
Latimer’s expression changes, into that of a fox that has just caught the scent of a mouse. ‘You saw her last night?’
‘That’s right. Will that be all?’ He pushes himself up and notices the books piled on Latimer’s desk. Four of them, all written by Maggie. Latimer is watching him.
‘Have you read these, Pete?’
‘No. I get my fill of violent crime coming to this place every day.’
‘Maggie Rose has written seven books.’ Latimer reaches out and picks up the top of the pile. He looks at it curiously. ‘Two of her cases have had the guilty verdict overturned on appeal. Three more are pending review. If she wins those, that’ll make five out of seven.’
‘Thanks, I can do the maths.’
‘Five out of seven will make her fucking invincible.’
‘No offence, but how is that anything to do with us?’
‘Back to what I asked you at the outset. Where are the weaknesses? If I’m going to defend your work against the likes of Maggie Rose, I need to know what I’m up against. If I’m going to cover your fuck-ups, I have to know what they are.’
Would he just lose his job if he landed Latimer one right now, or face criminal charges? One would probably be worth it. The other . . .?
‘No fuck-ups,’ Pete says. ‘No weaknesses, chinks, flaws or loopholes. Wolfe did it. We have physical evidence, a technology trail and witness statements. Not to mention motive and opportunity.’
Latimer, too, gets to his feet. ‘Exactly. There’s only one way the physical evidence can be bogus, and that’s if it was planted.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Oh, come on. You wouldn’t be the first. Noble cause corruption. We all know of coppers who’ve bent the evidence trail to convict someone they know to be guilty.’
Maybe a short spell in prison wouldn’t be too bad. He’d have a very nice memory to console him: that of Latimer, blood spurting from his broken nose, falling back against the partition wall and crumbling to the ground.
‘I think I’d like legal representation if this conversation is to continue.’
Latimer’s eyes narrow. ‘Got something to hide, Weston?’
‘Oh, use your fucking brain, Latimer. That’s if my wife hasn’t shagged it out of you.’
‘Hang on a—’
‘We found the dog hairs and the carpet fibres on Jessie before Hamish Wolfe was a suspect. No one had even mentioned him in connection with the case until he was spotted on the CCTV camera weeks later.’
‘His car was spotted. Not him.’