MAGGIE ROSE
The Rectory, Norton Stown, Somerset
Monday, 4 January 2015
Dear Hamish,
Here’s a little something of the world outside.
On the fourth Saturday of every month, there is a farmers’ market in Glastonbury. Maybe you know it? As you spotted for yourself, I eat very little, but I love to look at fresh food, skilfully made and beautifully laid out, and farmers’ markets fascinate me.
I try to get there early, before the crowds, and just wander around, admiring the colours of the fruit and vegetable stalls, the artistry of the artisan bakers, smelling the cheeses, marvelling at the sheer inventiveness of the makers of cordials, pickles and preserves. So much summer goodness captured within glass.
I never buy anything, but it would be nice to, I think, if I could be sure it would be eaten. Can I get something for you when I go next? I need to check what I’m allowed to bring into Parkhurst, but maybe some clementines with their waxy green leaves? Or maybe your taste veers more towards passion fruit and pomegranate? Some Cheddar cheese, perhaps, with a rich dark pickle? I’m being cruel, aren’t I? I really must check the regulations before I torture your taste buds any more. I wouldn’t be allowed to bring glass into a prison anyway.
I had a very interesting chat with James Laurence last week and I’m heading to Bristol later today. Your old friend Oliver Pearson has agreed to see me when he gets home from work. I’ll stay over tonight and fill you in when I visit tomorrow.
I received your last letter. I’m touched, but no need to thank me as yet. I am acting out of self-interest, remember?
Best wishes,
Maggie
Chapter 81
CLIFTON OCCUPIES THE high ground – geographically speaking, if not morally. It stands on the east of Avon Gorge, overlooking the river and much of the city, but its grand Georgian terraced houses were built on the profits of tobacco and slavery. Number 12 Goldney Road is a four-storey, end-of-terrace property, occupied by Oliver Pearson, his wife Lisa and their two young children.
Like her husband, Lisa Pearson is a registrar at the Bristol Royal Infirmary. She has been on maternity leave since her oldest child, a three-year-old daughter, was born. The couple admit Maggie into their home without enthusiasm.
‘Hamish is wasting your time,’ Oliver Pearson is telling her now. ‘Chablis?’ Without waiting for an answer he pours wine into a glass the size of a goldfish bowl. It isn’t intended for her, though. He raises it to his lips in the manner of someone who has been looking forward to his first drink for some time.
‘Thank you, but I came by car.’
‘Lisa?’ He holds the bottle up as his wife, all honey-blonde hair, hockey thighs and active breasts comes back into the room. She holds a baby against one shoulder and barely looks at her husband. ‘It would be quicker to put it in a bottle and give it straight to Ludo.’
She empties the last few drops from a toddler’s cup into the sink. ‘Coco wants you to kiss her goodnight, by the way. If you can remember where her bedroom is.’
Pearson’s face tightens. He hasn’t offered Maggie a seat, or to take her coat, and she is hovering, uncomfortably, in the middle of the room.
‘Hamish was best man at your wedding,’ she says.
A surly nod. ‘That’s right.’
‘And godfather to Coco,’ Lisa says. ‘I can’t tell you how that goes down at mother and toddler groups.’
‘You must have good reason to believe your former best friend guilty of three murders, Mr Pearson.’
‘Four murders.’ Lisa Pearson’s eyes go from Maggie to her husband.
‘Mr Pearson?’
‘Justice in this country is weighted in favour of the guilty.’ Apart from the glass in his hand, Pearson looks like a pontificating school teacher. ‘Far more guilty people go free than innocent people are wrongly convicted. If Hamish was found guilty, it would have been for good reason.’
‘That’s an argument I would expect from a perfect stranger. You were his friend.’
‘So?’
‘So you would have an informed opinion on whether or not your former friend is capable of killing three women.’
‘Four.’ Lisa, on the periphery of the conversation, is not going to be left out of it entirely.
‘So was he?’
Pearson sniffs loudly. ‘What do you want me to say?’
‘I want you to tell me why you think Hamish Wolfe capable of killing three women.’
There comes an audible exhalation from the far side of the room. ‘Am I the only one in this room who can count?’