‘Does he have a history of violence? Did you see him mistreat women? Was he abused as a child? Did he show any signs of a mental disorder? You’re a doctor, you’d spot a problem in someone you knew well. Was he on medication? Did he seek counselling? Did he ever say or do anything that made you question, in any way, his mental stability?’
‘Whoa!’ Pearson puts his glass down and holds up both hands. ‘You’re not in a court now, love. You’re in my house. Have you spoken to the others? Warwick? Chris? Simon?’
‘No, you were the only one who would take my call.’
‘More fool you,’ snaps his wife. ‘Anything for a bit of attention.’
Pearson’s head whips round as though someone has slapped him. ‘Well, I get precious little in this house.’
Maggie speaks quickly to get their focus back on her. ‘I intend to get Hamish’s conviction overturned and my best chance of doing that is to find alternative suspects. I have four in mind, so far, Mr Pearson, and you’re one of them. Let me tell you what I think happened in Hilary term, in the year 1996.’
Pearson seems to hunch down, like a fighter getting ready to charge. ‘I think I want you out of my house.’
‘I think the videotapes you were making to supplement your beer fund got a little bit too adventurous. I think—’
‘Videotapes? What the hell is she talking about?’
‘You’re leaving. Now.’
Maggie stands her ground. ‘I don’t know how much you know about IT, Oliver, but nothing ever disappears from the internet, not completely. If any of those videos were ever posted, even decades ago, there are companies who can trace them. They’re not cheap, but I’m not working to a budget.’
‘Out.’ He strides ahead, making for the front door.
She follows, nodding a goodbye to Lisa Pearson and the baby, neither of whom respond, and leaving her card on the side table by the door. ‘I’m staying at the Hotel du Vin in the town centre. I’ll be here till eleven o’clock tomorrow.’
Chapter 82
THE ENGLISH CHAIN, Hotel du Vin, specializes in contemporary design in quirky old buildings. The Bristol hotel, in an old sugar warehouse, is three floors of rigid leather furniture, roll-top baths and bed linen so crisp and white it could be made from freshly milled paper. Wine bottles, all of them empty, are everywhere, as though the hotels are permanently recovering from the best party ever.
Maggie has been awake for several hours, has taken a walk around the waking city and breakfasted on salty, creamy eggs Benedict that made her feel slightly ill. She will leave in an hour. Until then – the phone is ringing.
‘Good morning, Miss Rose, this is the front desk. There are three gentlemen here to see you.’
She didn’t expect them quite so soon. Nor that three of them would come. Feeling that frisson of excitement that tells her a plan is going better than anticipated, she checks the room and carries her overnight bag down to reception. They are in an alcove of the lounge area, drinking coffee. She has a second to study them before they spot her.
‘Good morning, Oliver.’
The three men stand as she approaches. Not out of politeness, the looks on their faces tell her that, but in a rather feeble male attempt at intimidation. No one offers to shake her hand.
The smell of successful male is very strong, a combination of expensive aftershave, coffee and last night’s alcohol. One of them is very tall, his dark hair more than half silver now. The other is shorter, making up for his lack of height with extra girth. She ignores Pearson and speaks to the other two. ‘Simon, Chris, good to see you. Is Warwick running late?’
‘Warwick’s in Scotland.’ Pearson looks down his nose at her. ‘We didn’t even bother calling him.’
They think they can bully her with nothing more than physical presence, these men. They think an extra few stone in bone, fat and muscle will be all it takes. ‘Whereas you just had a fairly easy drive over the Severn Bridge.’ She deals with Simon Doggett first. He still plays rugby, she sees, but he favours his right leg when he stands. Repeatedly turning out as front row, bearing the weight of several large blokes, has done some serious damage to his left knee.
‘And you’re in Gloucester, I believe, Chris?’ The tall man is in better shape. ‘You picked a good field. Orthopaedics is a growth area.’
She sits in the nearest armchair and they do the same. They look like a business meeting. She could be the slightly quirky sales rep, trying to persuade three senior doctors to buy a new and expensive drug.
‘Oh, don’t look so wary, boys. I checked the medical register to find out where you’re all based. And I found your photographs in a Magdalen College yearbook. None of you have changed so much as to be unrecognizable. I’m not a witch, just a good investigator. Now, who’d like to start?’
‘This is the only time we’re going to talk to you without lawyers present,’ Pearson tells her.
This makes her smile. ‘A lawyer is present. Me.’