‘Why is it so important to your son that I take up his case? Turn right here, please, on to the High Street.’
‘It isn’t just me. There’s a whole bunch of people who support Hamish. People who’ve read about the case. Who know there was a miscarriage of justice. Miss Rose. I wish you’d meet them. They have a website. You can google it.’
‘Mrs Wolfe.’
‘Sandra, please.’
‘As I wrote to your son directly, my work schedule is full for the foreseeable future. I simply don’t have the time. Just before the pub, on the right. Thank you for bringing me home.’
‘I can drive you back to collect your car. When you’ve changed.’
‘I’ll get a cab. And now, if you’ll excuse my being blunt, I don’t expect to see you waiting for me at the beach again.’
‘Wait!’
Maggie is half out of the car. She turns back to see that Sandra is holding something out to her. A small, square cardboard box. ‘He asked me to give you this. He makes them himself.’
Maggie starts to shake her head. On the back seat, Daisy opens her eyes.
‘Please, Maggie, what harm can it do?’
Maggie takes the yellow box tied with white ribbon, closes the car door and sets off along her drive. Only when she has turned the corner and she can no longer be seen does she open it.
Inside is a flower, fashioned from paper. The petals are white, the stalk and leaves a bright emerald green. It is beautiful, perfect.
A convicted murderer has sent her a rose.
Chapter 2
The Times Online, Monday, 8 September 2014
CONTROVERSY IN COURT AS WOLFE TRIAL OPENS
Accused surgeon, Hamish Wolfe, refused to enter a plea on the first day of his trial at the Old Bailey today. In accordance with English law, he will now be tried as if he had pleaded not guilty.
Dressed in a dark grey suit, white shirt and blue tie, Wolfe appeared to be paying close attention to proceedings, but when asked to speak, he remained silent, in spite of the judge, Mr Justice Peters, on three occasions, advising him that it was not in his interests to do so.
Up until the time of his arrest, Wolfe was a leading cancer surgeon, one of the most highly regarded young doctors in the south-west. He was an active sportsman, a rugby and hockey player, experienced and talented at both climbing rock faces and crawling beneath them. He held a pilot’s licence. Generally considered a very handsome man, he seemed blessed with a loving family and a wide circle of friends. He had just announced his engagement to celebrity model Claire Cole. Today, he faces four counts of abduction and murder. If convicted, he is likely to spend the rest of his life in prison.
The disappearances of four young women between June 2012 and November 2013 sparked one of the biggest police investigations ever conducted by Avon and Somerset police, but it was a lucky break on the part of Detective Constable Peter Weston that led to Wolfe’s arrest in December 2013.
Refusal to plead is rare but usually indicates a desire, on the part of the accused, to decline to recognize the authority of the court. Interestingly, three separate psychiatric reports commissioned by the Crown Prosecution Service were submitted incompletely, giving rise to speculation that Wolfe may be unfit to plead and to stand trial. The detective who arrested him, though, emphatically disagreed when the suggestion was put to him.
‘Absolute rubbish,’ commented Weston, since promoted to Detective Sergeant. ‘Wolfe understands perfectly well what’s going on and is more than capable of entering a plea. He’s playing games with us. It’s what he does.’
The case of the Crown v. Hamish Wolfe will continue tomorrow.
(Maggie Rose: case file 004/TT8914 Hamish Wolfe)
Chapter 3
‘I’VE REALLY GOT to go. Why don’t you discuss it with Tim?’
‘There is no fucking way—’
The line goes dead. Detective Sergeant Pete Weston starts to count. One, two, three – no, he isn’t going to make it to double figures. Not this time.
His eyes slide to the passenger seat where a gold wristwatch lies like tossed litter. He picks it up, wondering at the ability of gold to retain its warmth, even on days like this, and looks at it for a second or two.
Well, it’s never going to fit him.
He gets out of the car, still livid, and pops open the boot, hardly noticing the minuscule ice shards that stab his exposed skin. The wheel wrench is cold in the way that gold never is. He drops the watch to the pavement and strikes it once with the wrench.
He gathers three pieces, doesn’t bother collecting all the shattered bits of the face, and drops them into an evidence bag from the glove compartment. His hands are stiffening with cold by this point, but he takes up his phone.
Found your watch, he types. Must have got caught on the seat runner. Might be repairable. I’ll give it to Tim.