‘You fancy her as well?’ the little man smirked. ‘Can’t say I blame you – if you like Richard’s seconds, that is. You didn’t give Sally Jenkins one as well, did you?’
It was evident to Isaac that the respect accorded him initially by Ian Stanley, due to being a ranking police officer, had dissipated. Stanley only saw him now as a black man in a suit.
Stanley’s voice had carried. Soon Jess appeared. She gave Stanley a nasty look but said nothing. He only smiled and continued pushing everyone around.
‘Foul-mouthed little man. I can’t stand him.’
‘Jess, it’s good to see you. I’m sorry you heard that.’
‘Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be alright. He’s been trying to get me off the set for a few weeks now. Any chance to make a comment or weaken my position, he takes it.’
‘Will he succeed?’
‘It’s hard to say.’
‘Why’s that?
‘He’s good at what he does. Someone mild-mannered, politically correct, wouldn’t have a chance to put this together. You don’t know how much work is involved out here. Most nights I don’t leave before ten at night, and he’s often still working.’
‘You’re looking good, by the way. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. It took me some time to get over that grilling you gave me down at station.’
‘I was just doing my job.’
‘I’m okay. My brother-in-law said you were going easy on me. It didn’t feel like it at the time.’
‘What about Sally Jenkins?’ he asked, hopeful that it would be a more sympathetic response than Ian Stanley had offered.
‘I was sad for a day or so, but she only came here a few times. Excited the men whenever she appeared, gave the women something to gossip about.’
‘No other concerns about her death?’
‘Of course there are! We’re all worried who’s next. Charles Sutherland has been murdered, so has Sally Jenkins. What about Marjorie Frobisher? Do you believe her to be dead?’
‘Jess, I’ve no idea.’ He did not elaborate that the missing woman had been seen a few days earlier.
‘These deaths and Marjorie Frobisher are all related, aren’t they?’ she asked. Isaac noticed that as lovely as she looked she was obviously feeling the strain. Was it Ian Stanley’s innuendoes? Was it a concern that maybe she could be targeted next? Did she know something she wasn’t telling him? he asked himself. He hoped it was not the latter.
‘It seems likely, but so far we’ve drawn a blank. We have ideas as to what the link may be, but it’s vague.’ Isaac felt he had spent long enough with her. Excusing himself – this time he managed to avoid the kiss – he left the production lot and headed back to his office.
***
Wendy could see that Bridget had raised more questions than answers. How would she be able to follow up on the mysterious person who had met Marjorie Frobisher at the railway station? It seemed an impossible situation. The cameras close to the station had given some clues, but cameras weren’t everywhere in the city. The best she could do was to retrace the steps of the missing soap opera star as she had exited the station. Maybe someone had seen something, remembered something. She realised her chances of success were slim, but sometimes something came out of it.
She had been good at tracking missing children in her early years with the police force by trying to think as they would. Maybe it could work this time. She wasn’t the sort of person to rush to Isaac Cook – understanding as he may be – and announce that she hadn’t a clue. No, she was determined that she was going to find this woman, dead or alive, and at the present moment, alive seemed to be a distinct possibility. Whether safe and comfortable in a hotel or a decent house, or in a situation of despair, she had no idea.
Isaac and Farhan continued to follow up on the events that had occurred since they had been assigned the case. Then it had been a missing woman, but now! Both were struggling with how to proceed.
Also, what about the child that had been adopted? Who knew the answer? And then there was the complication of Farhan sleeping with the prostitute, still in contact with her. Isaac had noticed the secretive messages and Skype on video. He knew she was a good-looking woman, but the young detective inspector was playing a dangerous game. If their boss found out, officially he may be required to pull him off the case.
Both had come in for criticism over the handling of the case: sometimes valid, at other times racially biased. Isaac knew full well that there were people within the confines of the building who would quite happily see them fail, even at the cost of a few unsolved murders. Isaac resolved he would protect Farhan, whatever the cost. And then he had his own problems. There he was sleeping with Sophie, wishing it was Jess O’Neill. Once, in a moment of passion, he had whispered her name into Sophie’s ear; not that she minded – at least, that was what she had said. Isaac hadn’t been so sure, though.
Sophie had always proclaimed that it was casual sex, no strings attached, no exclusivity, but he knew enough of the world to know that women are not wired that way. They see love when there is none, reject exclusivity and profess free choice, but only say it for the man’s benefit, hoping the man is wise enough to realise that what the woman really wants is exclusivity and no free choice.
The situation, both professional and personal, was becoming untenable for both men. There were just too many loose ends, and the mysterious offspring of a promiscuous woman and someone of great influence in the country seemed to be the loosest end. It was crucial to find out who the person was, but there was no obvious candidate. And Richard Goddard was keeping his distance. Isaac assumed it was to do with the upcoming promotions within senior management. He realised that his boss was desperate for an elevation, and unsolved murders didn’t help.
Isaac did not like it one bit. Both he and Farhan were now carrying guns. In all his years with the Metropolitan Police, he had never once felt the need to arm himself. Of course, like all policemen he had the benefit of training and was always aware that a situation may arise when a weapon was required.
***
Isaac was sure of another long night when he met up again with Farhan in the office. Farhan had been out at the hotel checking on who had told the journalist about the prostitutes. Isaac suspected that he had also been meeting with the Indian woman; the other escort had apparently disappeared. Farhan knew where she was, he had told Isaac that much. Isaac had let the matter rest there and decided not to pursue it further. He realised that if it were important, Farhan would tell him.
The British press had finally descended on Olivia’s house, to find the doors locked tight, and the neighbours bemused by the microphones thrust in their faces and the questions relating to their neighbour, Caroline Danvers. Most had said she was well-respected in the community.
Mrs Edgecombe, seventies, a little hard of hearing, and pleased at the attention, stated categorically that she had always thought something was not quite right. The press had latched on to her for a couple of days, but realised soon enough that she was an embittered lonely woman whose husband had run off with a younger woman twenty-five years previously – a woman who looked remarkably similar to Caroline Danvers/ Olivia.
The media left after a few days, finding that there was no story at Olivia’s house. They turned their focus to the other woman.
It was the reason Farhan was in communication with Aisha on such a regular basis. She was worried, and there was only one person she could turn to, only one person she trusted. Farhan was not sure what he could do to help; the press was voracious, and if they wanted to find someone, they would.
‘What do we do now?’ Farhan asked Isaac once they were both settled back in the office after a meal at a local Asian restaurant. They had eaten there before on several occasions, and it had been fine, but tonight… Isaac wasn’t so sure; his stomach was feeling queasy.
‘What do you mean?’ Isaac understood his colleague’s concerns. It had been dragging on for too long, and there
was no clarity about where they were going with the case. The leads were drying up – had dried up, if they were truthful.
‘What do we have?’ Farhan asked. ‘We’ve two murders, virtually no ideas, and no clear direction as to where this is heading.’
‘You’re right, of course.’
‘We’re no nearer to finding Marjorie Frobisher, and although Wendy’s done a great job, she’s just coming up with blanks.’
‘Wendy still seems to be our best bet.’ Isaac was not too comfortable with Farhan’s comment. He had known her longer than Farhan, and to his recollection, she had never failed to deliver the goods. He remained confident that she would find the woman.
‘Okay, we’ll give her time,’ Farhan said. Isaac could tell the pressure was building up on his colleague. He felt it necessary to comment.
‘You seem to be under too much pressure, becoming emotionally involved.’
‘I suppose I am.’
‘The woman at the hotel with Sutherland?’
‘Yes,’ Farhan replied emphatically.
‘You’re trying to protect her. An admirable sentiment, but you know it’s not going to succeed. The press will find her soon enough.’
‘That’s the problem. It looks as if they have.’
‘We’d better talk this through. You can’t protect her on your own. She’s a material witness, maybe not in the murder, but certainly due to her association with Sutherland. Did you expect to protect her indefinitely?’ Isaac felt that a love-sick colleague was counter-productive, even though he felt empathy with him.
‘I had hoped to protect her. But now it’s complicated.’
‘You’ve slept with her?’ Isaac knew the answer but felt the need to ask again.
‘You know I have.’
‘Since you were given a warning to keep your distance?’
‘Not since then, but it’s been difficult. I’ve wanted to.’
‘You know what she is, has been?’
‘An escort, sure. I’m beyond making a judgement.’ Farhan squirmed in his seat. He was pleased that he and Isaac were having the conversation – embarrassed that they were.
‘Are you emotionally involved?’ Isaac sat upright in his chair and leant across his desk for emphasis.
‘I know it’s illogical. I’ve a wife and children, and there I am falling in love with a woman who has been selling her body for money.’
‘Love is blind, or so the saying goes,’ Isaac said. It seemed a throw-away phrase, clichéd, but it appeared to sum up Farhan’s predicament.
‘As you say, love is blind. What do you reckon I should do?’
‘Protect her.’
‘But how?’
‘What about the other woman?’
‘I know where she is, but unless there’s an official request, I’ll keep it to myself.’ Farhan did indeed know where Olivia had gone, even had a phone number. The woman was grateful and trusted him enough to tell him that the children were in school, that her husband and she were trying to work through it, and unless she received a legal request to return to the United Kingdom, they were staying in South Africa.
‘You’ll still have trouble keeping her out of this. If we ever find a murderer, there will no doubt be a summons issued to all witnesses to come forward, including your girlfriend. You realise that?’
‘I know. What do you advise?’ Farhan sat sheepishly in his chair.
‘She needs to disappear.’
‘But she has a career, a good career.’
‘What will happen to her career when they find out?’
‘It’s a prestigious law firm,’ Farhan said. ‘I imagine that a former prostitute, high-class or otherwise, will not last long there.’
‘You’re right. They’ll have her out of the door within five minutes. She won’t have the benefit of being innocent until proven guilty. The first hint of scandal and she will be condemned.’
‘She knows that. She’s putting on a brave face but she’s worried about the shame it will bring on her family.’
Isaac sympathised, but he could see little hope.
Questions were being asked by the media on the television and in the newspapers about what was going on. Were there going to be other murders and what were the police doing? Not very much seemed to be the consensus view.
‘She can’t be protected, you know that,’ Isaac affirmed. ‘So, what are you going to do? What are we going to do?’
‘It’s not your problem, Isaac. You’ve got your career to think about.’
‘To hell with that. If we don’t solve these murders, neither of us has a career. And besides, I need you with me helping, not moping around, staring at the camera on your laptop.’
‘We have to get her out of the country. Is that what you think?’ Farhan asked, grateful that Isaac was willing to go out on a limb for him.
‘The sooner, the better. You’d better give her the facts straight, face to face.’
‘I will.’
‘And don’t go sleeping with her.’
‘I won’t,’ Farhan replied, although he wasn’t sure that his answer had been entirely truthful.
Chapter 30
It was clear that Marjorie Frobisher had walked away from Paddington Station in the company of a man; it was not known if she had been reluctant or willingly. Wendy felt that willingly was the more likely of the two scenarios. She was applying her experience to the problem. Wayward children, when they reappeared, invariably made for someone they knew, someone they trusted.
Isaac had suggested Richard Williams as the most likely person to protect her, but he had denied seeing her when Isaac had phoned him. In fact, he had been quite annoyed over the accusation that he was possibly obstructing a murder enquiry, threatened legal action if such a statement was made again. Isaac felt convinced that he was in the clear, although angry that he could not tell the man what he thought of his pompous manner.
Besides, he had heard Linda Harris’s voice in the background, and the clinking of glasses indicated they were not in the office. Isaac resented him for his good choice in women, when he was feeling the early signs of rejection from Sophie.
As much as she had alluded to not being concerned when he had inadvertently mentioned Jess O’Neill’s name in a moment of passion, she had not been available to come over the last couple of times he had phoned. He couldn’t feel any undue sadness, only a little frustrated that the relationship was over.
He was determined to speed up the case. After that, he would be free to call Jess. He knew she would be available.
Wendy, convinced that the only solution was to get out on the street and to commit herself to good old-fashioned legwork, was outside Paddington Station early the next morning.
The morning was bleak. Wendy had dressed accordingly, although it was not a flattering ensemble: a jacket with a scarf, trousers, and solid walking shoes. She completed it all with a red woollen hat her husband had given her.
The clearest images that Brian Gee, the nerdish computer man at Paddington Station, and Bridget Halloran had managed to come up with showed that Marjorie Frobisher and the unknown man had walked down Praed Street, in the direction of St Mary’s Hospital. The rain had started; Wendy was not in a good mood. The dampness in the air was starting to play havoc with her arthritis, and she knew at the end of the day she would be in severe pain.
She soon reached St Mary’s Hospital, a maroon plaque commemorating the discovery of penicillin by Sir Alexander Fleming proudly displayed underneath his laboratory window. Marjorie Frobisher had been seen this far down the street, but after this the trail had gone cold.
The weather worsened and she decided that a warm place and a quiet coffee would be a good idea. She found a little café. It didn’t look very enticing, but as she opened the door, she felt the heat. Taking a seat close to the window, she ordered a latte and a cake and pondered the situation. Was she wasting her time walking the street? What could she do? Should she go home, admit to Isaac and Farhan that she
had no further ideas?
Desperate to do something, she indulged in idle conversation with the waitress, a pleasant looking woman in her late forties, the tattoos on her arm not to Wendy’s taste.
‘I’m looking for someone,’ Wendy said after the waitress asked what she was doing out on such a miserable day.
‘Anyone important?’
‘Someone you’d know.’
‘Not Marjorie Frobisher?’ The waitress’s answer surprised Wendy.
‘You know her?’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
‘I suppose they do, but why assume it’s her?’
‘I told everyone in the shop that I had seen her. They all thought I was a bit crazy, and without my glasses my eyesight is a bit dodgy.’
‘You didn’t report seeing her.’
‘I was going to, but everyone convinced me otherwise, and then it became busy. I suppose I forgot.’
‘You’ve reported it now.’
‘You’re the police?’
‘Yes. Is that okay by you?’
‘As long as I’m not in trouble.’
‘Of course you’re not. We need to talk. Are you free to sit down and have a coffee with me?’
‘Yes. Sure.’
Wendy noticed that the waitress, Sheila, was a nervous woman, unsure of herself. She also noticed that she took a piece of cake with her coffee. Wendy knew she would be paying for it.
‘Did you speak to Marjorie Frobisher?’
‘She didn’t speak. The man with her did the ordering.’
‘Tell me about him?’
‘He spoke quietly, well-mannered. He didn’t leave a tip; I remember that well enough.’
‘Did he seem friendly with Marjorie Frobisher?’
‘I kept staring, couldn’t help myself.’
‘I understand. It’s not often you see celebrities walking into your café.’
‘We see the occasional one when they’re visiting the hospital across the road, but she was my favourite. I always watched her on the television, and here she was, sitting in my café, drinking my coffee. It’ll be something to tell my family when I get home tonight.’
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3 Page 23