In the two days, conveniently located near the restaurant and a café she frequented, she had seen little. She believed she had seen the woman at the window a couple of times, but it was high up, and it had been no more than a blurry silhouette. The only visitor, almost certainly Richard Williams, judging by the way he walked. It was not possible to see the face, due to a heavy coat, a cloth cap, and a voluminous scarf. She noticed that the man arrived in a small car, not a Ferrari.
Isaac had phoned a couple of times, purely for an update and Farhan had phoned once. Apart from that, she had been left alone. It suited her fine. The warmth of the sun out next to the water, or in the café, had helped her arthritis, the best it had been for some time.
Her house, she knew once her husband was established in a retirement home, would need to be sold, the rising damp too costly to repair; at least on her meagre income and her husband’s pension. The consistently moist atmosphere in the house kept chilling her bones and her body. She couldn’t wait to leave.
It was on the third day when she saw the commotion. An ambulance had pulled up outside the building where the missing woman was hiding. Quickly on the phone to Isaac who was soon in his car and on the way over. Wendy, not wasting any time, was in the building, flashing her police badge at the concierge as she dashed through. Not needing to check which floor, uninterested if it had been any other than the thirteenth.
The woman was prostrate on the floor, the ambulance paramedic hovering over her.
‘Is she dead?’ Wendy shouted.
‘She’s still breathing.’ The reply.
The paramedic, she could see was a young woman in her early thirties.
‘Do you know her?’ the paramedic asked. Wendy could see the name tag attached to the front of the woman’s uniform, Patricia Edwards.
‘It’s Marjorie Frobisher.’
‘The actor?’
‘Yes, her.’
‘I thought it was.’
‘Will she live?’ Wendy asked anxiously. It was her responsibility, and now the woman was dead, dying. She was not handling the situation as well as she should have.
‘Touch and go, I’d say.’
‘When will you know?’
‘Not for me to say. I need to stabilise her, deal with the immediate situation and get her to the hospital.’
‘Any idea what happened to her?’
‘Not sure. Maybe a heart attack.’
‘Does it look intentional, murder?’
‘I’m not the police. I’m only here to deal with the medical condition. You’ll need to ask a policeman as to whether it’s murder or not.’
‘I’m a serving police officer, Constable Wendy Gladstone.’
‘Then you can tell me.’ Wendy could see the paramedic was busy. Isaac was five minutes away, and he would want answers. The key person was incapacitated, and she was responsible. Why hadn’t Isaac confronted her before? Whether the woman lived or died, there was trouble coming; she could sense it.
***
Five minutes later and Isaac entered the room. He saw the missing woman being taken out on a stretcher.
‘DCI Isaac Cook,’ he introduced himself to Patricia Edwards, the paramedic.
‘She’s stable. It looks as though she’ll live.’ She had correctly anticipated what he was going to ask.
With that, the woman left with her patient. Isaac needed to spend time with Wendy and check out the flat. He phoned Farhan and asked him to get over to the hospital.
‘What’s happened?’ Isaac turned his attention back to Wendy.
‘I don’t know. She had no visitors, only Richard Williams. I’m pretty confident it was him. She hasn’t left the apartment in two days.’
‘Anyone else been in the building?’
‘Plenty in and out.’
‘And did any of those contact the woman?’
‘I wouldn’t know. She’s up on the thirteenth floor. I could hardly stand outside her door for all that time.’
‘I suppose not. We should have contacted her when she first appeared.’ Isaac regretted his lapse; regretted he hadn’t told Richard Goddard.
And where did Linda Harris fit into the puzzle? he thought. She had confirmed she was MI5, although she had been adamant that she was only looking for the woman and certainly not involved in any of the murders.
The previous night she had been anything murderous. He felt remorse afterwards, hoped that Jess would never find out, vowed not to sleep with the woman again.
Marjorie Frobisher’s current condition represented trouble - trouble with a capital ‘T’.
A close investigation of the apartment revealed nothing unusual. The clothes in the wardrobe, the same as on the CCTV at Worcester and Paddington Stations. There was the sign of a meal, recently consumed. Isaac noted it for checking. He phoned the medical examiner, asked him to come over. It was not a murder scene, at least not yet, but the apartment would need to be sealed off and thoroughly checked.
It was clear to him that Wendy had done no wrong, but he knew how the police force worked. When there was a disciplinary action pending, there was always a scapegoat. He was the guilty party, not her, but he was young and a future detective superintendent, even head of the establishment. They would protect him, but he was not going to let a woman approaching retirement, take the blame for his actions. He realised that if he took the blame, then pressure would be placed on Detective Superintendent Goddard to explain why one of his DCI’s had not followed procedure.
Isaac could see a bleak future for Wendy if Marjorie Frobisher had been the subject of an assassination or attempted assassination.’
***
Farhan arrived at the Royal London Hospital on Whitechapel Road in Whitechapel within five minutes of the ambulance transporting the unconscious woman. He left the car in a no-parking area and flashed his badge at the surprised security guard. Farhan gave him the keys and told him to move it if it was in the way. It was not his way of dealing with the general public, but this was an emergency. The pieces were coming together, or they would if the woman lived.
Her cover was broken; she was vulnerable. He hoped she would realise that the only protection for her was in coming clean with all she knew.
Farhan had phoned Robert Avers on the way, his number on speed dial. He sensed the man was not overly pleased. Apparently, he had been cutting quite a dashing figure around town with a woman young enough to be his daughter, although the one he had been squiring was attractive, whereas the daughter, by her own admission, was not.
Once in the hospital, Farhan flashed his badge again. Soon, he was outside the emergency room. He noticed the media starting to arrive; someone had tipped them off. He could see the hospital being deluged with cameras and microphones. Her reappearance was big news. The radio and television stations would be blasting it to the world incessantly for the next few days until it became old news, replaced by something else: maybe a war or a disturbance or a bimbo celebrity and her breast enhancement.
Farhan chose to ignore the media presence. He phoned the local police station to send over some uniformed men to hold the press and any fans at bay.
Doctor Sangram Singh, in charge of the woman finally came out to speak to Farhan. He was a distinguished man, and as Farhan found out later on, highly respected. Due to the importance of the woman, he had been brought in to take charge. Normally, one of the junior doctors would have dealt with the case. ‘She’ll be fine,’ he said.
‘What was the problem?’ Farhan asked.
‘Anaphylactic Shock.’
He quickly phoned Isaac to update. His reply, ‘What from?’ Isaac knew what it meant.
‘Nuts probably. We’ll check it out.’
‘The husband, is he there?’ Isaac asked.
‘Along with half of the London Press, or soon will be.’
‘Local police?’
‘They’re here. I phoned them to take control.’
‘Detective Superintendent Goddard wants to see all three of u
s.’
‘We’re for the high-jump?’ Farhan sensed trouble.
‘Someone is, or maybe he just wants an update.’
‘We can’t talk to the woman, not for four or five hours at least. She’s sedated.’
‘Then make sure there’s a police guard on her door. It’s important.’ Isaac hung up the phone. He had a defence to prepare.
***
It was unusual for the Detective Superintendent Goddard to summon all the team into his office. In fact, it was the first time for Farhan and Wendy.
‘Isaac, what’s going on here?’ The detective superintendent did not seem to be a cheerful man, less cheerful than normal, at least. He was not one of nature’s most affable men at the best of times, but Isaac had great respect for him. Always saw him as a man he could trust, although recent events had shaken that trust.
‘Marjorie Frobisher is alive,’ Isaac said.
‘I only have to turn the television on to know that. They’re obsessed with her.’ It was a curt reply.
‘We can question her now. Find out this great secret.’
‘And when you find out, what then?’
‘Hopefully, it will clarify the reasons as to why Sutherland and Sally Jenkins were killed.’
‘Hell, Isaac, this is getting dangerous. What if certain parties don’t want this solving? What if the woman’s rising from the dead is putting people on edge? I’ve already Angus MacTavish on the phone.’
‘What does he want?’ Isaac asked. He had noted that the customary cup of coffee and harmless repartee had been dispensed with.
‘What do you think? He wants to know what the woman is saying.’
‘And you’ve told him what?’
‘Nothing. You told me she’s sedated.’
‘She’ll be speaking later today.’
‘I hope so for your sakes.’
‘Constable Gladstone, pleased to see you,’ the detective superintendent, showing a momentary friendliness, addressed her.
‘Nice office, you have here, Sir.’ Compared to Bridget’s it was palatial. Panoramic view, large window, a strong functional bookcase full of books and some comfortable chairs to one side. Not for them, though. The three were sat on one side of the desk, the chairs not very comfortable. Their interrogator on the other side sat on a high-backed leather chair.
‘Constable,’ the previous civility no longer required. ‘I’ve seen your expenses. Extravagant in Malvern, but I let it pass as you did find some additional information about Marjorie Frobisher.
‘Necessary, Sir. I needed to maintain cover and the taxi driver needed priming.’
‘It seemed you did as well, judging by the amount of alcohol consumed.’
‘Sorry, Sir. I’ll be more careful in future.’
‘Okay, but now there is an expense claim for a restaurant down at Canary Wharf, directly opposite where this woman was found.’
‘I’ll retract it if it’s a problem, Sir,’ Wendy said timidly.
‘That’s not the problem. The problem is with DCI Cook.’
Isaac, now sitting upright and rigid in his chair prepared himself for the worst.
‘Isaac, how long have you been aware of the whereabouts of this woman?’
‘Two days, going on three.’
‘And you chose not to tell me.’
‘We were unsure of the situation. She seemed safe enough, and we were staking out the building.’
‘What did you expect me to do? Rush off to Angus MacTavish, cap in hand. Is that how you see me?’
‘No, Sir.’ Isaac wasn’t sure he could say much to excuse his actions.
‘You don’t trust MacTavish, do you?’
‘I thought him a decent man, but he’s a politician with a fearsome reputation for always being on the right side.’
‘Isaac, you should have come to me. I could have protected you, but now I have MacTavish baying for my blood and the head of the Metropolitan Police asking questions. What can I say? My people chose not to place their confidence in me. It hardly sounds like a ringing endorsement for a promotion.’
‘Sir, do you trust MacTavish?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not totally, but if you had told me soon enough, we could have discussed whether to tell him or not. I was not about to rush out the door and over to his office. Someone is after the woman, someone who would prefer her to be dead on a slab in the morgue instead of recovering in a hospital bed.’
‘That’s why we kept it secret.’
‘So who found out?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Isaac admitted.
‘DI Ahmed, Constable Gladstone, any ideas?’
‘No one that I’m aware of,’ Farhan said.
‘Not from me,’ Wendy added.
‘Isaac, let’s go through this in detail. Who visited her in Canary Wharf?’
‘Only Richard Williams.’
‘And what’s he got to say?’
‘I’ve not spoken to him yet.’
‘Don’t you think you should?’
‘After we leave here.’
‘Officially. He’s got a lot of answering to do.’
‘I will, Sir.’
‘DC Gladstone, DI Ahmed, you can both leave. Thanks for your time. And DI Ahmed, get to the hospital and make sure the woman is safe and still breathing. Constable Gladstone, submit your remaining claims today while I’m in a generous mood.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ They both spoke in unison.
With the door closed and Isaac alone with his boss, the detective superintendent felt the need to talk more openly.
‘Isaac, I expected better from you. Why are you letting your hormones get in the way of your policing? Aren’t you getting your leg over enough?’
‘It’s not that, Sir.’
‘Then, what are you doing sleeping with Linda Harris?’
‘How do you know, Sir?’
‘MacTavish told me.’
‘How did he know?’
‘What does it matter. He’s somehow involved, but Linda Harris?’
‘She admitted she was MI5.’
‘Licensed to sleep with whoever?’ Isaac thought his superior’s remark inappropriate.
‘With Williams, yes.’
‘Did you not stop to think? She may have checked the messages on your phone while you were asleep. No doubt she’s been trained in the art of exhausting a man.’
‘If she found out, then she’s not as innocent as she looks.’
‘Isaac, why are you assuming that because she’s beautiful, seductive and available that she’s not a highly-skilled operative. If she had been plain and ugly, you would have suspected her.’
‘If she had been plain and ugly, she wouldn’t have ended up in my bed.’
‘That maybe, but you can see where I’m coming from. It could have been you, who gave her the lead she was aiming to get from Richard Williams. Can you imagine the trouble that would cause, if it was true?’
‘End of my career, I would assume.’
‘And mine. I’m not ready to retire yet, neither are you, but you’ve got to control the overriding need to bed every attractive woman that comes along. No doubt, it’s great fun and obviously finding these women comes easy to you, but they’re impacting on your ability.’
‘There’s one I would not mind making a longer-term commitment with.’
‘I hope you haven’t slept with her as well.’
‘No, Sir.’
‘And what’s she going to say when she finds out about Linda Harris?’
‘I don’t know, Sir. She’s been trying to contact me. Urgent, supposedly. I assume she knows by now.’
‘Wrap this case up. It’s been going on for too long.’
‘I will, Sir.’
‘And don’t go sleeping with Linda Harris. Or Jess O’Neill.’
‘I won’t, Sir.’
***
Isaac suitably chastised, returned to his office. Wendy was there filling out her expense form. Farhan was almost back at the hospital.
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Isaac idly surfed the internet for a few minutes, noting that all the news’s website in England were headlining the reappearance of Marjorie Frobisher and her narrow brush with death. Isaac felt he needed to act and decisively if he had any hope of reclaiming some credibility. He knew his boss was correct and that he shouldn’t have bedded Linda Harris, but she had been available. He pondered Jess for a while, almost certain that the romance was over before it had started. He was saddened at the prospect. Maybe she would understand that it was in the cause of duty, but he knew she wouldn’t. She was a woman who would regard fidelity in a relationship as paramount.
He wasn’t sure what he was going to say to her. He only knew he needed a few days before he contacted her. Jess O’Neill was personal; Richard Williams was not.
He phoned the man, informed him that his presence was required in the building the next morning, nine a.m. prompt. Williams acquiesced and informed Isaac that his legal representative would be present as well.
Wendy, meanwhile, had left the office, obtaining a signature from Isaac and had rushed off to Richard Goddard for his counter-signature. The man had been polite to her, so she felt comfortable this one time to knock, and besides, some medical bills were coming up for her husband, and she needed the money back as soon as possible.
Isaac mulled over the situation, realised that he wanted to speak with Jess O’Neill, clear the air if that was indeed possible. He knew it was the right action at the wrong time. He expected the worst.
‘Jess, how are you?’
‘Fine.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t phone for a few days, and then you’re out with Richard Williams’s latest bit of skirt.’
‘Jess, that sounds like jealousy.’
‘Of course, it is. Do you mind explaining?’
‘I needed someone to bring a new perspective to it.’
‘What a load of hogwash and you know it. You fancy her, admit it.’
Murder is a Tricky Business (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 1) Page 31