‘Explain. Not about Tom Flannigan taking cocaine. About why you can be so relaxed about the woman you planned to marry moving on. About her not standing by you.’
His eyebrows almost meet in an incredulous frown. ‘It never occurred to me that she would. She came to visit me once, on remand. You’d have thought she was being asked to walk through Belsen. Back when it was open for business.’
‘Her fiancé was in prison. Of course she found it hard.’
He actually laughs. ‘Oh, trust me, the wrongly accused fiancé she could have dealt with. Just as long as she had fast-track through the queues, her own personal security and a private lounge to meet me in. It was mingling with the great unwashed that Claire couldn’t handle.’
‘And this was the woman you were going to spend your life with?’
He sighs, as though having to explain something to a difficult child. ‘Maggie, men get married for all sorts of reasons, not always good ones. Claire was the one pushing. And my mum was desperate for grandkids. Granddaughters in particular.’
‘You got engaged to please your mother?’
The laughter is gone now. ‘It really didn’t matter how many people told me Sophie’s death wasn’t my fault. I was there. I was at the top when she fell. Maybe I felt grandkids were my way of making amends. Possibly they would have been. A little Sophie? Yeah, that would have been nice.’
She pauses to take stock. Five questions left. He has the same.
‘Could you kill someone?’ she asks him.
His face clouds, as though a grim memory is passing through his head. ‘I probably will if I spend much longer in this place. So, yes.’
There is something very dark behind his eyes now, but whether memory or prediction, it is impossible to tell.
‘What’s your favourite colour?’ he asks her.
‘White,’ she says, then backtracks. ‘No, I mean blue. Of course I mean blue. What else would it be, I mean, look at me.’ She lifts the ends of her hair.
The corner of his mouth twitches. ‘White isn’t even a colour.’
‘No, it isn’t. Where is Zoe Sykes?’
‘I have no idea. Are your parents still alive?’
‘I lost my mother over a decade ago,’ she says. ‘My father five years after that.’
‘Any close family? Siblings? Secret husband?’
‘No, to all three. What happened to Daisy Baron?’
She sees a start of surprise in his face, but he recovers quickly. ‘I don’t know. She vanished towards the end of the Trinity term.’
‘What was she to you?’
‘Fellow student. Friend. Girlfriend, for much of that first year.’
‘Was her leaving something to do with you?’
His eyes narrow. ‘I never got a chance to ask her.’
Around them, people are getting up and saying goodbye. She waits for Hamish to say something more. He doesn’t.
She is the only visitor still seated. The rest are heading for the door. ‘People believe Daisy is dead. That she was your first victim. Was she?’
‘You’ve had your ten questions, Maggie. More than.’
She waits. He takes a moment before replying. ‘She wasn’t. And I really hope she isn’t. Something warm will slip out of my world if I lose the possibility of ever seeing Daisy again.’
‘Time please, miss. Come on, Hamish, you know the rules.’
They ignore the guard. ‘What do you regret most?’ she asks him.
He grins as she gets to her feet. ‘Getting caught,’ he tells her.
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
IN ONE OF the poorer estates in the Bristol area, the Sykes’s family home is neat and orderly. The single row of paving stones leading to the front door has been kept clean of winter slime. The patch of brown lawn is short. The bins stand to attention on one side of the door. Just behind the still-white net curtains, Maggie can see a row of china ornaments: female figures, in period costume; six of them, each perfectly spaced, each facing at exactly the same angle into the room within.
The sound of her knocking has barely time to fade before the front door opens. Brenda stands facing her. ‘When’s it going to be? When’s he going to show us where Zoe is?’
‘Brenda, I really don’t think you should get your hopes up. Hamish is still claiming he didn’t kill Zoe.’
She follows the older woman to the kitchen. It is a small room, dated, but immaculately tidy.
‘He said, though. He said if you went to see him, he’d show us. Kimberly, make Miss Rose a cup of tea.’
‘I’m afraid he didn’t. That letter was from his mother.’
The muscles around Brenda’s mouth twitch. ‘Effing cow. Kim, use the PG Tips, not that cheap stuff from Lidl. And make sure the cups are clean.’
Maggie looks in a corner of the room to see a thin girl intent upon her mobile phone. Her long fair hair hides her face.