‘What?’
‘I got through to Parkhurst first thing. Deputy Governor did me a favour. There is no record of a Sirocco Silverwood or Sarah Smith ever visiting Wolfe in prison. He checked phone logs as well, and email traffic. He mainly contacts you and his mum, never Ms Smith. The relationship is a fantasy on Sirocco’s part. That doesn’t make her any less dangerous, by the way.’
A weight has fallen away. ‘So she didn’t get the rose from him?’
‘Can’t see how. The other partial prints on it could be his, but not conclusively. She could have nicked it from his mum. Hell, she could be into origami herself.’
‘Thank you, Pete. Did you find anything at her flat?’
‘Yep. We found her mobile phone. She was the one texting you that night – you know, the old he loves me, he loves me not malarkey. And she has use of a mate’s car from time to time, so she could, in theory, have followed us all to Wells. Nothing to tie her to the Odi and Broon murders yet, but we’ll keep looking. We can keep her inside for today, at least.’
‘Pete, I didn’t thank you for last night. For sending that constable round to the fairground.’
‘I won’t do it again.’
She is smiling. ‘Yes, you will.’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Thank you.’ She puts the phone down gently. ‘You will,’ she says to herself.
Chapter 89
HAMISH SAYS, ‘I’M glad you’re OK, but I don’t want you taking any more risks for me.’
‘I think I can safely promise you to avoid poorly maintained fairground rides in the middle of winter. And, who knows, your favourite detective might find something at Sarah Smith’s flat that links her to Odi and Broon’s murders.’ Maggie stops, wondering what could realistically be found by the police at Sirocco’s flat. And whether she might be a possible suspect in the Wolfe murders. ‘You might want to tell your parents to steer clear of her, though,’ she says. ‘Just in case she gets bail.’
He reaches down below the table.
‘Something I thought you might be interested in.’ Hamish is holding out a soft-covered book, A4 size, about a centimetre thick. ‘I had Mum bring it in. It’s our yearbook from Magdalen College. Here you go.’
He turns it to face her. She is looking at a photograph of students gathered for the Commem Ball. It is early in the evening, because the sky is still light and the revellers pristine and fresh. It is the same photograph that, cropped down, was used by the media during Hamish’s trial. Hamish is in white tie, the most formal of evening dress, and is with a group of similarly dressed men and glamorous young women. The woman on his arm, though, is different from the others.
Her hair is dark and thick, swept up on to the top of her head. It will curl down past her shoulders when loose. Her eyes are big and brown. Her nose large and angular, her teeth slightly overlapping. Her skin is lily pale. She’s wearing black, as large women often do, but the fine fabric flows over her limbs and torso like a silk waterfall. The neckline is a deep V-shape, drawing attention to her large breasts and cleavage. The sleeves are long and slim, made from black lace. Tucked behind one ear is a large, white flower.
‘Daisy,’ Maggie says, feeling a pang of deep sadness. ‘She was gorgeous.’
Hamish sounds a little defensive. ‘Yes, she was.’
She looks him in the eye. ‘You were a fool.’
He doesn’t disagree. ‘So many times, I’ve asked myself, is it too late for Daisy and me. If I were to find her again. What do you think?’
She opens her mouth to say that she has no opinion on the subject, that she couldn’t care less about Daisy, but can’t do it. His eyes are holding her. They are locked in some weird staring competition. She is trying to look away, just can’t quite—
The door shakes in its frame as something hard and heavy slams against it. Wolfe is faster than she, jumping immediately to his feet. He takes the two strides that bring him to the door and peers through the inset window. The door is banged again. Directly outside, someone is swearing.
‘Fuck!’ Wolfe spins round. ‘Get in the corner. Now!’
She hears the words, but they don’t quite make it to the part of her brain that directs movement, because nothing happens.
There is a fight going on outside. She can hear punches, grunts, the rasp of breath. In the distance, maybe on another floor, there is more noise. Wolfe is pressed right up against the window, as though trying to block the view out. Or the view in.
‘Maggie.’ Wolfe is whispering, low and urgent. ‘Get out of sight, now.’