‘Yes.’
‘He was sleeping with her.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘He has a history of relationships with his staff,’ she said.
‘I am aware that Sally Jenkins enjoyed the good life he provided.’ Isaac looked for a visual response. He could see none.
‘Are you trying diplomatically to ask whether I was sleeping with him?’
‘It may be relevant to the investigation.’
‘The answer to your question is yes.’
‘Thank you for your honesty.’
‘He’s used me as an alibi, hasn’t he?’
‘Do you corroborate his statement?’
‘He was with me all night.’
Isaac felt the need to probe. ‘Sally Jenkins was obviously with Williams for her own personal reasons.’
‘And you want to know if mine are the same?’
‘It may be relevant.’
‘I’m not sure how. For the record, Sally Jenkins was incompetent, attractive and easily swayed by a rich man with a fancy car.'
‘Are you?’
‘Not at all. For one thing, I’m competent; the car and the wealth are not important.’
‘Then why?’
‘He’s a charming man, treats me well. Neither of us is under any illusion. It’s purely fun for a while. I’ll leave soon enough. Does that satisfy?’
Isaac chose not to comment anymore on her reason. He had a casual relationship with Sophie, and it suited both of them fine. It was not for him to form an opinion on Linda Harris or Richard Williams.
The relationship between Jess O’Neill and Williams had concerned him a lot, but he had discounted it, given her the benefit of the doubt. He realised as he sat across from a beautiful woman, that he had not seen Jess for a while. Their last meeting had left both of them more than a little upset.
‘Sally Jenkins was murdered for a reason,’ Isaac said.
‘Are you concerned that I may be targeted as well?’ She seemed unconcerned.
‘If, as we believe, she died for something she knew or overheard, then the situation remains that you may know or have overheard something.’
‘I’m not sure what. You believe that Richard may know something?’
‘It seems a logical conclusion. Assuming Charles Sutherland died because he was going to talk to the magazine about what he knew.’
‘And you believe Sally Jenkins knew as well?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Either she was involved with Sutherland or she heard something. Is that what you are saying?’
‘We’ve discounted any involvement with Sutherland. The only information she could have would have come from Richard Williams. There seems to be on other explanation.’
‘I certainly haven’t heard anything in the office, although I’m not an eavesdropper. Apparently, she was.’
‘If you haven’t heard anything at work, maybe you have elsewhere.’
‘How?’
‘Does he talk in his sleep?’
‘He doesn’t sleep much.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Not because of me. It’s the man’s metabolism. He sleeps maybe three or four hours and then he’s prowling about, making a cup of tea, snacking from the fridge, writing emails. Mildly annoying, I need eight hours at least, or I’m cranky the next day.’
‘In his limited sleep time, does he talk?’ Isaac returned to the original question.
‘Sometimes, but I take little notice. I’m a heavy sleeper, takes a sleeping pill occasionally. Do you think Sally heard something?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘If someone thinks I heard something as well?’
‘You need to take care, maybe distance yourself a little from him.’
‘That’s not an issue. I’m not sleeping with him anymore. It was only a short-term fling for both of us. He likes his women a little more common than me, and I do not need an old man attempting to prove his virility. I’ve more pride than that.’
‘You’ll continue to work with him?’
‘I said I would until I’ve fixed up the administration or until he finds a Sally Jenkins’ replacement.’
Isaac felt satisfied with her responses, not certain about her safety, but there was an unknown assailant, and the police department could not go protecting everyone in potential danger. And, if the murders were professional, would the police even be capable of waylaying a determined assassin?
Chapter 27
Wendy, frustrated with the slow progress on checking the security videos at Paddington Station, decided to leave early and return the next day, but not before calling in at Challis Street Police Station.She needed to check if there had been any success at finding the missing woman from the video she had obtained in Worcester.
Bridget Halloran greeted her as she entered the office on the lower floor of the building. She was a good looking woman with a strong Irish accent. She and Wendy had hit it off when Bridget Halloran first entered the building a few years earlier. Both had a story to tell and an easy-going sense of humour. Wendy enjoyed being out in the field, Bridget preferred the office, even the reports that needed preparing. She had helped Wendy a few times with her spelling, which was atrocious. It can be rectified, Bridget had assured her, but Wendy never took her advice and as long as Bridget remained in the building she never would.
Wendy was almost fifteen years older than Bridget, yet they were firm friends inside and outside of the police force. Both were partial to a good drink, too many on some occasions, and Wendy’s husband had complained on more than one occasion when the taxi driver had assisted her into the house. Bridget’s long time, live-in lover had tried complaining, but as she told Wendy, ‘If he starts complaining, he’ll get the back of my hand and a quick push out the front door.’ It was a fair statement as a small inheritance from a favourite aunt, had allowed her to put the deposit down on the house, and she had no intention of allowing her lover to have any financial stake. Not unless he made an honest woman of her and he didn’t look like doing that anytime soon. Besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be an honest woman. She also felt the need to play up on occasions and a ring on her finger would have offended her strict Roman Catholic upbringing. Wendy had covered for her a few times.
Bridget knew the lover would not be checking too hard. He was not ambitious, maintained a mundane job working for the council, but he provided company, and he kept her satisfied sexually. He had his part to play in the agreement, and as long as he abided by the conditions, he was free to live with her rent-free.
‘Any luck with the video?’ Wendy asked after they had spent more than a few minutes nattering, making plans for another night out.
‘She clearly boarded the train. Let me show you.’
All Wendy could see was a grainy screen with what looked like a dead fly in one camera, out of focus and blurry.’
‘It’s not very clear,’ she confessed, not sure if it was her eyesight.
‘They never are. No one cleans them. The pollution slowly builds up. Just squint your eyes a little, may help.
Wendy squinted, it helped a little. All she could see was a woman vaguely matching the description getting into the third carriage of the Paddington bound train. Another five people appeared to get on as well, and they were clearly not middle-aged. One was male and old, the way he walked attested to that fact; another two, obviously newlyweds or newly enchanted with each other. Wendy hoped they had found a private carriage as they were practically ripping each other’s clothes off on the station. The other two, children from what she could see. It had to be the woman, although the face was concealed and the resolution on the camera did not help.
By the time they had finished looking at the video and talking it was too late in the day to return out to Paddington station. She had phoned Brian Gee, the self-confessed computer nerd, and sent him an email attachment with the three best stills taken from the Worcester Station video. She then phoned
Station Master Broughton, a matter of courtesy, to thank him for his help and hopefully, they could catch up for a cup of tea tomorrow, the cost on her, which seemed a lame remark. He was British Railways - the tea was his, and he didn’t have to pay for it.
***
Christy Nichols had passed on the details to Farhan as to who was involved in the smuggling into the hotel of the two escorts. He should have met with them first, and then Aisha.
He decided against meeting Olivia if he could. He saw her as a good woman indulging in an unusual occupation to protect her family, who would not have understood.
There had been pressure to reveal his contacts, a procedural requirement. He knew if there were an audit of the department, he would receive a severe reprimand. Not revealing the women’s identities would hamper his promotion prospects; giving their names would cause him a moral dilemma. They had spoken to him in confidence, he would respect their confidence.
Farhan understood that Detective Superintendent Goddard was a good man, ambitious and not willing to rock the boat if it affected his ambition, willing to turn a blind eye if it did not. Farhan had decided whatever may, Samantha and Olivia’s true identities would remain concealed, but Christy Nichols knew the agency. Marion Robertson, the principal of the agency, may not have such a reluctance, especially if pressure was applied: legal pressure, running a house of ill-repute, profiting off the proceeds of prostitution, employing illegal immigrants. He was certain she was not guilty of any crime, certainly none that was too serious, but if pressured, those doing the questioning would almost certainly bring up the possible avenues of enquiry, and she would have other women on her books. He knew the possibility of the woman being identified was strong. He knew he had to let them know.
He phoned Olivia. She was not pleased to hear from him. He explained the situation and asked whether she had told Agnew. She said her identity was more important than a few hundred dollars and besides her husband’s financial situation had improved, and the need of prostituting herself was not as important, although they were looking at a bigger house to buy. Farhan saw that selling herself caused her no personal issues.
He explained the possibility of her identity being revealed. It caused her great alarm. He explained that he would never reveal, but others might. He advised her to consider her position. And, if he thought her identity was soon to be revealed, he would attempt to contact her in advance. She thanked him. She sounded genuine.
Aisha was also disturbed when he phoned her, although initially she had been delighted. He had been honest with Olivia; he would be with her. Olivia meant nothing to him, Aisha did. They agreed to meet.
***
Farhan, personally involved, although he wished he could detach, but knew he could not, thought a better location than Hyde Park would be more appropriate. For her part, she had taken a half-day from work. She had something to tell him. He hoped it was not a confession.
A riverside pub overlooking the Thames with a clear view of Tower Bridge chosen by both. She arrived in her workday clothes, a smart business suit, sombre in colour as befitted her chosen profession of lawyer. The suit jacket loosely draped over her shoulders reflecting the heat of the day. Farhan arrived, suit and tie although he loosened the tie on arriving. Both were a little excited; both showed it.
‘I’ve got some good news,’ she said. Farhan breathed a sigh of relief - it was not to be a confession. A waiter hovered, anxious to take their order. They ignored him.
‘Aisha, this is official,’ he said. He knew that what he needed to ask her should have been in a more formal setting. Smiles and touching of hands across the table did not constitute official police proceedings. He knew he could not stop.
‘Let me tell you my news first.’ She seemed oblivious of what he wanted to ask, disinterested in her other life. She, for herself, knew she was acting like a love-struck teenager out on a first date. The teenager, she was not, but the love-struck and the first date were certainly correct. She would not say it openly, but if asked, she would have admitted that she felt more than a fondness for Farhan Ahmed, the upright and serious detective inspector. He knew her story, her ambition, her screwing men for money. She hoped he would understand, not as a policeman, but as someone she could spend the rest of her life with.
The waiter increasingly annoyed in being ignored eventually succeeded. Business was brisk, and it was clear the establishment had adopted the policy of quickly sit the patrons down, feed them, and get them out the door as fast as possible, credit cards suitably debited. The punters as the pub lessee, a foul-mouthed Irishman, referred to the patrons, only cared about the money in his bank account. The service the pub provided, only there to ensure the maximum return on investment. He was not wrong over his concern for profit, the situation in the city was difficult for any business. Rents were high, labour costs through the roof, and a riverside pub overlooking the Thames could not easily relocate down past Canary Wharf to somewhere cheaper. The owner, a Russian businessman, located in Moscow, mansion in Kensington, knew that only too well. Both ordered fruit juices and a salad.
Farhan also flashed his police badge and directed his glance towards a couple of young girls, obviously under age, sitting with a group of men, two tables distance. The waiter understood. Farhan and Aisha would not be rushed out of the premises if the pub did not want trouble.
‘Tell me your news,’ he said.
‘I’ve passed my exams.’
‘Congratulations. Does that mean you’ll be moving from your current position?’
‘No, they’ve offered me a more senior position. They’ll be some delay before I starting representing clients on my own, but it’s a great start. I haven’t celebrated yet. Maybe I can, with you.’
‘I’m here officially. You realise that?’
‘I know, but I can’t tell you any more. I don’t want to talk about the other business.’
‘I must ask.’
‘If you must, but make it quick. Please don’t destroy the mood.’
‘Did you see the press conference with Detective Superintendent Goddard and DCI Cook?’
‘I couldn’t watch it. It was on the television at my home. My parents were watching it, offering comment. I was too ashamed. I left the room. They wanted to speak about it later; how disgraceful it was that women behave it that manner. I changed the subject, left the house and went for a walk. I don’t want to think about that life. It’s almost as if it’s a dream.’
‘Unfortunately, it’s not a dream, and it’s still a murder investigation.’
‘I’ve not been back to Marion Robertson since. I can’t imagine giving myself to another man purely for money. I should be embarrassed to say that with you.’
‘Why aren’t you?’ he asked.
‘You’re a good man. Maybe you don’t understand, maybe you can’t forgive, not totally, but you are able to put it to one side, not judge me too harshly.’
‘I could never forget. It’s not an issue that a Muslim man expects to confront too often.’
‘You mean, the not being a virgin.’
‘I suppose so, but I can deal with it. It depends on the woman.’
‘Am I that woman?’ she asked coyly.
‘There’s still the fact of two dead bodies to be dealt with.’ Farhan tried to bring the conversation back to official. He knew he was losing the battle: the weather was too good, Aisha too cheerful and her beauty distracted him totally.
‘I only know of one,’ she said.
‘Someone told a reporter that you and Olivia were in the hotel with Sutherland.’
‘It wasn’t me. How can you ask? You know me well enough to know that I wouldn’t do that.’
‘I know. Still, I had to ask.’
‘Why me? Why not Olivia? Why not the staff at the hotel? It was hardly a great secret; it’s not the first time I’d been there.’
‘I phoned Olivia. I’ve yet to speak to the staff. I’ve also spoken to Christy Nichols.’
‘Why
didn’t you meet with Olivia?’
‘I wanted to protect her identity and besides I don’t believe she would do it. Her secret is too important.’
‘And you think I might. Don’t you think my secrecy is important?’
‘Of course, I do. That’s why we have not met recently.’
‘I don’t understand.’ The mood had become chilly. ‘You are risking my secrecy now.’
‘We’ve met here. It would be construed by the casual observer that we are two people enjoying each other’s company. Here, in this crowded place is the most secretive place. We are here because I want to protect you. Because I had a legitimate reason to meet with you.’ The mood warmed.
‘You’ve used someone at the hotel talking out of turn as an excuse to meet up with me again.’
‘In part, I admit. But there still remains someone we don’t know about. Someone that was able to get him naked and to take a drink voluntarily.’
‘With the drugs, he was on, that could be anyone.’
‘And you indicating it could have been a man?’
‘Not a man, but he would not have been focussing too well. Maybe a disguise, maybe his minder.’
‘We’ve discounted her at the present time.’
‘I certainly saw no one else. Olivia probably did not either. I’ve stayed chaste since we last met. I said I would.’
They both ordered a glass of wine, not because they were drinkers, but because the situation required a relaxant. One hour later, they were upstairs in the pub alone together. Not because of the alcohol, not because of her past profession, not because he had not been with a woman for a long time and that had been an unsatisfactory coupling with a frigid and dull wife. It was because they wanted to be together; because they both felt a strong emotional tie.
It was early evening when they left the hotel. He, feeling guilty that he had acted unprofessionally; she, elated in that she had experienced sex without money and had not needed to pretend. His house, he knew that night was not going to feel so lonely; she, satisfied that she had found a man that she could love: a man her parents would approve of, a man who knew her secret.
Murder is a Tricky Business (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 1) Page 23