‘They’ll rustle you up some beans on toast. But you’re not.’
‘How would you know about my eating habits? And, you know what, I can hear you perfectly.’
‘There was chicken defrosting in your kitchen when I came round. What? Did you say something? I’m getting really bad static.’
‘I’ll be with you in twenty minutes, Detective. Order me the fish pie.’
* * *
She is late, as he’d known she would be. He knows that road in all weathers, all traffic conditions. When she walks in, blue hair windswept, cheeks bright pink with the cold, the conversation in the bar lulls. Condensation has formed on the wine glass he has waiting for her. She gives it a quizzical look.
‘Recycling bins just outside the cloakroom,’ he tells her. ‘You seem to favour Sauvignon Blanc.’
‘I don’t drink when I’m driving.’
‘That’s 125 millilitres. Even someone of your size will stay under the limit. Trust me, I used to be a traffic cop.’
She sits. Her coat stays on. She lifts the glass. When she puts it down again, the level has significantly reduced. ‘Thanks, I needed that.’
‘Thought you might. Food will be five minutes. So, let’s get the work stuff out of the way: what did you want to ask me?’
‘Have you come across someone called Sirocco Silverwood? Almost certainly not her real name.’
He pulls a face. ‘Can’t say I have, but anyone cautioned or charged would have to give their real name, not the one they use when they’re doing the turn at kids’ parties.’
‘I’m not sure you’d want this lady anywhere near young children. She’s either an habitual fantasist or borderline psychotic.’
Pete sips his pint while Maggie fills him in on her short, but weird, conversation with the woman claiming to be Hamish Wolfe’s true love.
‘She’s not the only one,’ he says when she’s done. ‘Wolfe gets more mail than the rest of Parkhurst put together. Anything else?’
‘Yes, a possible sighting of the real killer, carrying a body into Rill Cavern after Hamish had been arrested.’
He puts his glass down.
‘And now I have your full attention.’ She’s watching him, bright blue eyes combing his face for anything he might give away. He says nothing, but finds Google Earth on his iPad and sets it to show the relevant area around Cheddar. He takes his time, does a couple of mental calculations, then shakes his head at her.
‘It’s fifty metres from Gossam Cave, where Odi and Broon were camping, out to Rill Cavern where they allegedly saw someone carrying Myrtle’s body.’
‘It’s too far, isn’t it?’
‘Almost certainly. In the dark, only one witness, the other asleep. And I know those two.’
‘Odi and Broon?’
He reaches out for his pint. ‘Yeah, they sleep rough in the square here sometimes. They drink to keep out the cold. Can’t blame them, but it doesn’t make them reliable witnesses.’
‘Will you talk to them?’
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Yes,’ he adds, when the look on her face says she’s not sure she believes him.
The food arrives, the bustle of the waiter interrupts their conversation for a few minutes. Pete nods at the food. ‘I’d eat it while it’s hot.’
She doesn’t need telling twice, tucking in with enthusiasm. ‘I’ve been reading up on the Wolfe case,’ she says.
He becomes conscious of a tightening in his chest. ‘Why am I not surprised?’
‘When did you know you had him?’
Pete has answered this question many times. ‘We had the means of identifying our killer when we found hair and carpet fibres on Jessie Tout’s body. The hairs especially. Canine DNA is as unique as its human equivalent. At some time close to the point of her death, Jessie came into contact with Wolfe’s Dalmatian, Daisy.’
‘But at the time, you didn’t know which dog?’
‘No, it was the sighting of Wolfe’s car at the petrol station that really did for him. Once Ahmed the cashier put two and two together and checked the CCTV footage, it was all over.’
‘No trace of Myrtle in the car though?’
‘He’d had time to clean it.’ Pete finishes his food and puts his fork down. ‘So, are you his new lawyer? Do you and I have to become sworn enemies?’
‘I’m sure that wouldn’t be necessary, but no. That weird and wonderful bunch have nothing. I doubt I’ll hear from any of them again.’
Chapter 18
THE LETTER IS WAITING for Maggie when she gets back. This one, for the first time, has been directly addressed, rather than sent via her agent. This one looks different. The stamp, HMP Isle of Wight, for one, isn’t quite the same as on his previous correspondence. The paper is different too. So is the handwriting. It was posted two days ago.
HMP Isle of Wight – Parkhurst
Clissold Rd
Newport
Friday, 4 December 2015
Dear Maggie,
You are owed an apology. This is the first letter you have ever received from me. The rest were written and posted by my mother, without my knowledge. She also wrote to Brenda Sykes, similarly pretending to be me. I hope you can forgive her. She is a good woman, a little over-fond, perhaps, but I’ve always considered that an advantage in a mother. She is suffering terribly, at what she believes to be a great injustice to her son.
I made no offer to Brenda Sykes concerning the whereabouts of her daughter’s body. I have no idea where Zoe is and, as such, nothing can be gained by your visiting me. My mother is desperate for you to see me, believing you only need talk to me once to be convinced of my innocence. She has always had an unrealistic view of my charm, I’m afraid.
One thing I do want to thank you for, though, and that is saving my dog. Daisy means everything to me. My heart hurts every time I think of her, sad and missing me. Had she died in that dreadful pipe, I don’t think I would have been able to bear it. My mother tells me you were quick-thinking and brave, and that Daisy would have died without you.
For that, you will always have my gratitude. I wish you well, I wish you success in your future endeavours. I am sorry we never had the chance to meet.
Yours sincerely,
Hamish Wolfe
Chapter 19
THE LAVATORIES AND SLOPPING-OUT ROOMS in older prisons can be miserable places and Parkhurst, on the Isle of Wight, has its moments. On bad days, the sinks, the urinals, even the lavatories get blocked and overflow, sending a stream of evil-smelling swill across the already filthy tiled floor.
Most guys hold their breath and get done as quickly as possible, which isn’t easy, because there are always hordes of other guys trying to do exactly the same thing.
Not today, though. Today, Hamish Wolfe is alone. And afraid.
This should not have taken him by surprise. His first mistake. None of the officers on the corridor just now looked him in the eye. He should have known then. He should have realized when every other occupant of the room slipped out. Too late. The bloke in the doorway, a massive hulk of tattooed flesh, is blocking his way out and he hasn’t come alone. Behind him, Wolfe can see two other figures. In the corridor, silence. The sound of waiting.
Sex offenders rarely stay healthy and whole in mainstream prison. First to be picked off by the pack are the delicate, precious bits – the eyes, ears, genitals. Then they go for the essentials – kidneys, gut, brain. A lucky nonce doesn’t survive the first major attack on him in a mainstream prison, because if he lives through it he’s likely to be blind, toothless and pissing through a tube for the rest of his life.
Technically, Wolfe isn’t a sex offender. If he were, he’d be ‘on the numbers’, safe in a segregated wing. Nothing has been proven about how his supposed victims died, or what happened to them in the hours leading up to their deaths, but kill three, possibly four women and you’re going to get labelled a sadistic, sexual predator. That’s just the way it goes.
‘Don’t want any trouble, guys.’ Eyes down, pa
lms held outwards, Wolfe takes a couple of steps backwards. There might still be a chance – slim – that he can make it out of this, but if that isn’t happening, he has a plan:
One – let them think it’s going to be easy.
Make yourself look small, easily threatened, cowardly. Don’t square up. Don’t make eye contact. Let them expect a walk in the park.
‘Murdering scumbag,’ says the murdering scumbag walking towards him. He’s big and strong but he’ll be slow. A fighter who likes to crush. Wolfe backs up further. His eyes still down, he can see just three pairs of legs approaching. A fourth, feet facing the other way, stands guarding the door.
Two – keep calm, keep breathing.
The biggest danger to an inexperienced fighter is that fear takes over. First hint of trouble, you feel anxiety, followed quickly by panic. You stop thinking, hold your breath. You quickly lose energy, you’re a dead man in minutes. So the air has to keep coming in and going out.
Three – assess the situation.
Wolfe has done this already. No windows. One door and that’s being guarded. Three open lavatory cubicles behind him. They’ll want him in one of those, where the chances of avoiding blows will be non-existent. Prison staff will prefer it too – easier to wash away the blood.
Wolfe is two large paces from the edge of the cubicles. No further. This is where he makes his stand. Directly in front, a row of metal washbasins that could work in his favour; and a line of steel mirrors, in which he can see the three men coming for him. Crusher is first, followed by a man of similar size who is wringing and flexing his hands. Bringing up the rear is a younger, slimmer bloke.
Wolfe keeps his eyes on the mirrors. If he doesn’t look directly at his attackers, he can’t give anything away.
Four – don’t let your body betray you.
Most fights are lost because of telegraphing, unconsciously signalling to your opponent the exact move you’re about to make. He’ll see the leap in your eyes when you’re about to throw a punch, the sharply indrawn breath, the backward pull of the shoulder. He’ll see the bounce of a leg before a kick. Be very conscious of what your body is doing and of what his is doing, because he’s going to be telegraphing too.
Right now, Crusher is squared on to Wolfe, keeping his distance, too far away to throw a punch, which is good because:
Five – use your fists as little as possible.
There is a reason why boxers wear padded gloves. Fists are delicate pieces of machinery. Twenty-seven small, fragile bones bound together in a complex structure that, in a street fight, you’re expecting to make contact with the hardest bone in the human body and do some serious damage. It rarely happens. Pit the skull against the fist and the odds are stacked against the fist. Break a fist in the first punch and the fight is over.
Six – stay on your feet.
Most street fights end up on the ground, and Crusher will want him down as soon as possible, because once Wolfe is on the urine-soaked floor, Crusher can bang his head repeatedly down, kick him in the face, stamp on his hands, bring the full force of his weight on to Wolfe’s ribcage. His buddies, Wringer and Slim, can weigh in with their boots. They might only have minutes before the guards feel obliged to step in, but minutes will be enough.
Seven – be ready.
Wolfe can hear the indrawn breath. Crusher has mild asthma. Any second now.
Crusher launches himself at Wolfe. Wolfe hurls himself at Crusher. Crusher must weigh seventeen stone but Wolfe is no lightweight and he’s a hell of a lot fitter. He has speed on his side and, at the point of impact, it is Crusher, not Wolfe, who is driven backwards. They crash into the sinks and from the grunt of pain Wolfe knows he calculated right and that the metal rim has just done significant damage to Crusher’s kidneys.
No fists. The elbow. A sharp, upward stab, right on to the centre of the mandible, sending a shock sensor up into the cerebellum. Done right, this move can cause immediate unconsciousness, but Wolfe doesn’t quite have the momentum. Though Crusher is stunned, he stays upright. Wolfe slams his left hand, side on, into Crusher’s laryngeal prominence, his Adam’s apple. Now the big man is suffering serious pain and he can hardly breathe.
Shin kick. Groin kick.
Seven and a half – never take off your boots. Never.
Wringer and Slim are coming in fast. Wolfe grabs Crusher by both ears, yanking hard.
Eight – go for soft targets.
There are no rules in street fighting. Wolfe swings the big man round by his ears and into the path of the next. Crusher hits Wringer and they both stagger back. Slim is wary now, knowing what he’s up against. He’s also younger, lighter, fitter than the other two. He throws a punch, another, another. Wolfe dodges, skips from one foot to the other, staying just out of reach. A minute of this and Slim will tire – throwing failed punches takes a huge amount of energy – but he doesn’t have a minute. Crusher and Wringer are getting up. This isn’t the movies and the bad guys don’t wait their turn. Come on, come on, you can’t punch me, you have to – yes!
Nine – get the other guy to kick you.
Kicking is bad news. For the kicker. Kicking throws fighters off balance. Kicking is easy to predict and avoid.
Wolfe grabs Slim’s leg and pulls. Slim loses balance, begins hopping around in a desperate attempt to stay on his feet and it is the easiest thing in the world now to go for his groin. Wolfe kicks hard and Slim is out of the fight.
Ten – it’s not over till it’s over.
Crusher has sneaked around behind and Wolfe finds himself grabbed in a headlock. Wringer is running in. Wolfe jumps, kicking backwards with both feet, and this is his second mistake. Both men pitch forward. They’re going down and Wolfe will be the one underneath. Once a fight goes to the ground, the heavier man nearly always wins.
Hitting the floor almost ends it. Crusher is flat out on top of him. Wolfe can’t draw breath but Crusher has to shift to strike his next blow. He leans away, pulls Wolfe up and turns him over so that he can get at his face. That is his last mistake.
Mountain climbers are always stronger than their build would suggest, they have to be, to haul their own body weight up vertical cliff faces, and much of that strength is in their core. Wolfe’s abdominal muscles are second to none.
Wolfe grabs Crusher’s ears, already sore, and pulls down, simultaneously tensing his oblique muscles and crunching up. His aim is perfect. The ridge of the frontal bone, just below his hairline, strikes down exactly on the bridge of Crusher’s nose. One of the strongest bones in the human body striking two of the most delicate. Blood spatters across Wolfe’s face as Crusher’s nasal bones fracture. Now, at the end of the fight, he risks his fist. A sharp punch to the point just above Crusher’s ear, where the parietal bone meets the temporal bone. This is one of the weaker points of the skull and a recognized pressure point. Crusher slumps. Wolfe rolls and now he is the one on top.
He grabs Crusher by one ear, raises his fist with the other hand and looks at Wringer. ‘One step closer and your boss is picking teeth out of his shit.’
Wringer gets the message. He doesn’t care that much anyway about a couple of fat birds. He steps back, holds up both hands in a surrender gesture. He’s done.
Wolfe grabs both ears again and bangs Crusher’s head down hard.
‘You so much as look me in the eye again and I will cut off your dick and feed it to you. Do you understand, fat boy?’
No response. Another sharp slam of the head. More blood drips on to the tiles.
‘Do you understand?’
A grunt of assent. Wolfe jumps to his feet, looks from Wringer to Slim. The younger man is on his hands and knees now, bleeding from the lip. ‘Same goes for you two. And you, dickhead in the doorway. Have you got it?’
Eyes down. Grudging nods. It’s the best he can hope for. He turns back to Wringer, the only one relatively unscathed.
‘Give me five minutes, then bring them round. Gavin’s lip is going to need two stitches and I can
probably set Terry’s nose for him. It’ll be quicker than waiting to go to hospital. And I can give you all something for the pain.’
Wringer gives a brief nod. ‘Thanks, Doc. I’ll bring them.’
‘And clean this fucking mess up.’ Wolfe leaves the room and heads back to his cell. Nobody stands in his way.
Some say street fights are won with the right attitude. An ability to put aside fear and weigh straight in. Some say they are won by those in the best physical condition. Wolfe knows better. He knows that street fights – specifically those taking place within the close confines of prison walls – are won by a superior knowledge of human anatomy.
Chapter 20
Independent on Sunday, Sunday, 12 October 2008
LOVE’S LABOURS LOSING?
Sandy East goes to meet one of England’s most notorious married couples.
At first glance, Nigel and Carly Upton look like any other recently married pair. She is slender, with sleek, dark hair and an elfin face. He is larger, a strongly built man, albeit unaccustomed to physical exercise in recent years. They sit close together on the sofa, holding hands as they talk to me. Clearly in love, still at the stage where physical contact is regular and important, but mature enough to be self-conscious about being openly and demonstrably affectionate, they could be any couple that have found a fresh lease on love in their middle years.
Until you remember that Nigel Upton has served seven years of a life sentence for the murder of two teenagers. And that the two met, fell in love and married while he was a convicted prisoner in Strangeways.
Upton was arrested in 2001, following the discovery of the bodies of Sam George and Esther Fletcher in their car in a well-known ‘lovers’ lane’ just outside Buxton in Derbyshire. Prior to the double murder, police had received numerous reports of a man loitering in the area, watching the ‘courting’ couples. Investigators believed that Sam and Esther surprised and recognized their Peeping Tom and didn’t live to report him to the police.
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