Chapter 28
Early morning rush hour was not the best time to find a parking spot anywhere near to Paddington Station. In the end, Wendy found a loading zone and put a police parking permit in the car’s window.
She knew a few delivery vehicle drivers would be cursing her: the bad language a certainty, but she had no option. Brian Gee had been specific on the time, and the information seemed important. She did not like using police privilege unless necessary.
‘I’ve found her.’ She had barely entered the room when Brian Gee came up to her, shook her warmly by the hand and announced his success.
‘Where?’
‘The photos you sent. We were able to correlate them against the people on the station around the time the train arrived.’
‘Was she wearing the same clothes?’
‘That’s what made it easy. We also managed to get a facial. It’s not crystal clear, but it’s okay. A new camera had just been installed so it wasn’t yet choked with pollution.’
Wendy phoned Isaac with the news.
After the quick phone call, she turned her attention back to Brian Gee. ‘Positive ID?’
‘I’d say, at least ninety-five percent. That’s good enough for me.’ He offered her a cup of coffee, tepid warm out of a machine in the corner. She realised that if she wanted a British Railways cup of tea, she would have to go and see the station master, which she intended to do before she left.
‘What else do you have?’
‘She was met by someone.’
‘Any idea who?’
‘What we can see is one person, slighter taller than Marjorie Frobisher and wearing a heavy coat with a baseball cap.’
‘Male or female?’
‘Judging by the way the person walked, I’d say male.’
‘Any idea as to age, colour?’
‘I’ll give you copies of the video. Apart from male, heavy coat, baseball cap there’s not a lot more I can give you. We know they exited the station and headed in an easterly direction.’
‘Was she pleased to see the person?’
‘Yet again, you can make your own decision. She seemed to greet the man. After that, she can be seen walking at his side with his right hand holding onto her left arm. It’s difficult to tell if it was a friendly gesture. The station was very busy; maybe he was just ensuring he did not lose her. Not my area of expertise, I’m afraid.’
She realised that she should have picked up the video and headed back to Challis Street at top speed and given the tape to her friend Bridget, but she still had a cup of tea on her mind. Station Master Broughton had the tea ready when she arrived as well as a cheese and tomato sandwich. It was not stale. His office still maintained the unique smell she remembered from the previous day. It was homely and comfy, not like her home with her husband, increasingly vague and complaining. She knew that one day she would need to consider placing him in a nursing home. She realised that it may be before she retired. What would she do then, maybe travel, maybe take a course, maybe find someone else to keep her company, purely platonic? She could not see herself being on her own.
The Station Master, it was now Cecil and Wendy, chatted for a long time. He neglecting his duties; she forgetting the reason as to why she was at the station. By the time she arrived back at the car, it had been four hours. The delivery driver aiming to park, not intimidated by the official police sign, and not showing any respect for a woman gave her a verbal dressing down. ‘You think just because you’re the police, you can fuckin’ park wherever you like.’ He was an uncouth man, heavily tattooed and had the appearance of someone who belonged to a motorbike gang. The tee shirt emblazoned with Harley Davidson - a testament to the fact.
‘You watch your mouth, or I’ll slap a ticket on your truck for a failed brake light.’
‘There ain’t no problem with my lights. I checked ‘em this morning.’
‘There will be once I kick one of them out.’
‘That’s police harassment. I could have you nicked for that if I make an official complaint.
Wendy, suitably angry, had seen it too many times. She knew that if she had been police and male, the irate truck driver would not have engaged in a slanging match, and he would have moderated his language. Female, police, middle-aged, and it was a different situation.
‘Okay, I’ll tell you what we do,’ she said. ‘I’ll kick out your brake light; maybe hit it with a jack handle for good measure.’
‘You do that!’
‘You can call over a policeman, or I can call one for you on my police radio.’
‘You do that.’
‘Once he arrives, I’ll show him my police ID, nice and shiny, and you can show him your truck’s registration.’
‘You’re threatening me.’ He did not seem as confident as before, and there were the parking fines to consider. He hadn’t paid them, and his driving licence had expired six weeks previous.’
‘Threat? I don’t think so.’ She knew she had him on the defensive, realised that she should not have indulged in a verbal exchange on a busy street. After a congenial few hours with the station master and then an unpleasant foul-mouthed man, she had seen red. It had been a problem a couple of times over the years, even prevented her escalating up the police promotion tree from constable to sergeant to inspector.
‘Okay, I’m leaving,’ the driver said and drove off, cursing under his breath. Wendy left soon after, laughed to herself as she saw the driver five minutes later arguing with a policeman over an apparently bald tyre at the front of his vehicle.
***
Isaac was keeping his distance from Jess O’Neill, even though she had phoned a couple of times. He realised that if he met with her, he might have weakened and of the three women with a motive to kill Charles Sutherland, hers was very strong.
He had noticed the change in Farhan. It concerned him that he may be falling into the same trap that he had in the past. He decided to talk to him at some stage.
The information that Wendy had passed on from Paddington Station about Marjorie Frobisher, apparently still alive and now in London concerned him. Charles Sutherland had died, probably as a result of information he possessed about her. That would indicate a professional assassination, but none of the three women appeared to have any background that would indicate they were trained killers.
Could there be another woman? Isaac thought. It seemed plausible but if it wasn’t one of the three females they knew about, could it be someone known, or someone hidden in plain sight. The delays in suspects and charges against persons, innocent until proven guilty still occupied the media. His infrequent watching of television in the past had now become a necessity, so much so that he had installed one in his apartment, one in the office.
Sophie did not like the one at his home. Even complained when he had interrupted his undivided attention for her to watch the news. He wasn’t sure where the relationship was heading. Casual sex, no obligation, no guilt sounded great to the average hot-blooded male, but he had realised in recent weeks that he was getting older, time to settle down. He wasn’t sure as to why he felt this. In the past, it had been a thought in passing and no more. Maybe it was Jess O’Neill. He felt the need to see her. He knew he could not unless there was some new information.
***
Isaac’s momentary lapse the next day to think about Jess O’Neill abruptly halted. A newsflash on the television in the office. One of the two prostitutes known to have visited Charles Sutherland on the day of his demise had been identified. He knew Farhan would be upset by the news. He phoned him.
‘What are they saying? Farhan asked.
‘They said her name was Olivia. Is that one of the women?’
‘She did it for her family. I said I would never reveal her identity.’
‘You never did. It’s not your problem.’ Isaac said.
Farhan realised that it was his problem, although he did feel the need to elaborate as to why. Here he was, in a relationship with the oth
er woman. If one is identified, it would not be long before the other one was found. He had to focus on protecting Aisha, helping Olivia if he could, although she would not be conducive to hearing from him. He knew he had to contact Aisha and quick.
On ending the phone conversation with Isaac, he phoned Aisha - she was occupied with a client at the legal firm where she worked. He left a message, hoped she would get back to him before she heard the news from a third party. He realised he was in love. It was a complication he would not have chosen.
Still married, a costly divorce settlement which would almost certainly cost him the house, but that was not an issue as long as the children were fine. And then, he had broken how many police regulations? Fraternising with a witness who may be a possible murderer, behaviour unbecoming, concealing evidence. He could see his career dashed on the rocks of public opinion and police regulations. If it became known, would he be suspended? He hoped not; he still had to protect Aisha, assist Olivia if she wanted his help.
The phoning of Olivia was not necessary. She phoned him soon after the news broke. He reflected that she sounded calmer than he expected. ‘I told my husband.’
‘I maintained your confidentiality.’
‘It was that Marion Robertson,’ she said.
‘Are you certain?’
‘I phoned her. I thought she was a decent person, but prostitution always was a dirty business.’
‘Why would she do that?’ Farhan asked.
‘There have been some reporters fishing for information ever since that reporter on the television. If they ask enough questions, knock on enough doors…’
‘Have they found out where you live?’
‘Marion Robertson doesn’t know my home address. Besides, she only ever contacted me on an anonymous phone number that I gave to her.’
‘But she knows where we met and the school run. She set up our meeting.’
‘Oh my God, she does. They are bound to find me. I should never have met you.’
‘I understand that, but a murder. I would have found you anyway, the same way as the reporters. I’ve done the best I can.’
‘I know that. How am I going to protect my family?’
‘It may be best to go away for a while until it blows over. Why did you tell your husband?’
‘I had to. Too much guilt and he didn’t deserve to find out from someone else.’
‘How did he take it?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Badly?’
‘He’s in shock, not talking. I did the right thing telling him. I can only hope in time that he gets over it. He’s a good man, same as you. Could you forgive someone you cared for?’
‘In time.’ He did not intend to elaborate that he already had.
The phone call ended; it rang again. ‘I’ve just come out of a long meeting. I’m pleased to hear from you,’ Aisha said.
‘I don’t think you will be pleased when I tell you what has happened.’
‘Tell me?’
‘They’ve found Olivia.’ Farhan could hear an audible sigh on the other end of the phone. He wished he could have told her face-to-face, but it had not been possible.
‘But how?’
‘Marion Robertson. She’s admitted it to Olivia.’
‘Has she given my name?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’m heading over to see her right now. Olivia obviously had a contactable phone number. How about you?’
‘I changed it. You know that. I gave you the new number.’
‘Marion Robertson doesn’t have your contact number. How about an address?’
‘Neither, although she knows I work in the city. I suppose they could find me.’
‘Let’s hope not. It’s best for you not to worry and I’ll see what I can do to protect the two of you.’
‘You’re a good man, you know that.’
‘So I’ve repeatedly been told. Mind you, it never was enough to get me laid in the past.’
‘It did yesterday. Are you complaining?’ she asked. He realised there may be a possibility to protect her. He would have to level with Isaac, probably involve Richard Goddard. He had signed the Official Secrets Act, same as Isaac. If Marjorie Frobisher was so important, then why not use the act to protect the two women. He wasn’t sure if it could, but he had to try. He decided to forestall visiting Marion Robertson and to head back to the office and to talk to Isaac.
***
Bridget was in a talkative mood when Wendy entered her office, clutching the hard-disk with the footage of Marjorie Frobisher at Paddington Station. Wendy was still a little miffed after her argument with the van-driving lout. A cup of tea, not as good as British Railways soon calmed her down. Wendy assumed that Bridget’s computer set up was not as good as Brian Gee’s, but then she knew little about such matters, could barely write an email and her typing skills, definitely one finger at a time. She had noticed it before, even asked Bridget as to how she managed to type so quickly, barely looking at the keyboard, her eyes focussed on a monitor to the right of the laptop. Bridget said it was easy. Ten lessons to learn how to break the bad typing habits and then learn the basics, centre line on the keyboard, first finger of each hand on the raised bumps on the F and the J, left-hand F, right-hand J.
The teacher at the local college had explained that the two letters formed the reference point. Wendy had repeatedly tried, even drove her husband crazy, as she laboured away at night trying to get the hang of it, but the habit was too firmly entrenched. She gave up after six weeks and went back to banging the keyboard, and besides, if it became difficult, there was always Bridget.
‘It’s not very clear,’ Bridget said. She had ordered in some cakes, Wendy’s favourite. There goes the diet, Wendy thought. Not that she would ever have dieted, but it was always good to believe it.
‘The man she met?’ Wendy asked.
‘Judging by the way he walks, I’d say it was a man. The complexion looks on the dark side, but I’m not sure if that is the camera or the lighting.’
‘Can’t you reference it off Marjorie Frobisher?’
‘Are you certain it’s her? With those sunglasses on, it’s hard to tell.’
‘Almost one hundred per cent.’
‘It’s not going to be easy to follow her down the street.’
‘With all those cameras?’
‘That’s not the problem. It’s the software and the time delays in accessing. They’ll be a backup server somewhere; it will have been recorded. May take some time.’
‘We don’t have the luxury of time.’
Bridget phoned for some more food to be brought in. ‘It’s going to be a long day, maybe night. Are you up to it?’ She asked of Wendy.
‘Not a problem. I’ll keep you fed.’
‘Slave-driver,’ Bridget joked. Wendy knew her husband would be complaining. Tough, she thought. This was more interesting.
Chapter 29
Isaac told Farhan that he was a bloody fool and should have known better. ‘She is a witness, maybe more involved than we believe.’ Isaac could see why his colleague had strayed; allowed his personal feelings to interfere with a police investigation. Even, he had problems with the blurry line, but he had learnt his lesson, obviously Farhan had not.
If the case had been closed, a murderer found and convicted, then a witness was available. That had been the case for Isaac with Sophie White, although Ingrid Svenson had been a mistake on his part. Sophie was clearly not involved when he had commenced his relationship with her. Ingrid Svenson had been cleared, and then she had been found out to be the murderer. What if Farhan’s friend was involved? How could it be explained in a court of law, even to Commissioner Shaw in his ivory tower at New Scotland Yard?
‘Give me the story,’ Isaac asked.
‘I met both of them, separate occasions.’
‘I know that.’
‘I kept clear of Olivia as I knew some of her family history. I made a promise.’
‘I don’t think we ha
ve the luxury of giving promises.’
‘I know that, but I needed her cooperation.’
‘You’re too kind-hearted. You know that?’
Farhan had not seen Isaac so angry before. ‘What would you have done?’ he asked.
‘I’m not the one who has been sleeping with a witness, am I?’
‘It wasn’t intended, but what would you have done with the two witnesses?’
‘Probably the same as you, but sleeping with one of them…’
‘You make it sound sordid.’
‘What was it, an easy lay? I realise that life must be difficult for you at the present moment with your wife and children not around, but sleeping with this woman.’
‘She’s a good person.’
‘Next, you’ll be telling me she lives at home with her parents, contributes to the rent money.’
‘She does.’
‘Good God, Farhan, how do I protect you!’ Isaac exclaimed. His anger was not levelled at Farhan for what he had done. Most men would have acted in the same manner, but he was a policeman, an upholder of the law and here he was sleeping with a prostitute who may have seen a murderer. It was indefensible. Isaac knew he should have reported it officially, but Farhan was too good a policeman, too good a person to allow his career to be thrown away.
Richard Goddard had got him out of a couple of tricky situations in the past, maybe he could help. Farhan had hoped it could be kept between him and Isaac. Isaac explained it could not and if the women were to be protected then Detective Superintendent Goddard was the best man.
Farhan relented, in part because he knew Isaac was right, but mainly he wanted to protect the women, especially the one he loved. Her selling herself to help her through her studies should have automatically condemned her. However, his years in the police service had made him realise that some people were good, while others were bad. Aisha, he knew was good, as was Olivia. He hoped Detective Superintendent Goddard was good as well. He was not so sure about Marion Robertson. He would reserve opinion on her until she had been given the option of mounting a defence. Although, he realised it was conditional on his being a serving policeman and that was clearly in the balance.
Murder is a Tricky Business (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 1) Page 24