‘What brings you up here?’ the landlord asked. Wendy noticed that he was a red-faced man with an extended belly. She instinctively liked him.
‘I was on business in Carlisle. I just thought I’d take the opportunity to check out the Lake District.’
‘What do you reckon?’ he asked. He had joined her with a pint of beer as well. Wendy could see from his appearance that he often had his beefy hand clasped around a pint of beer.
‘Very pretty. The winters must be tough up here?’
‘Can be. Last year was not so bad. Something to do with global warming, I assume.’
‘Probably.’ Wendy said.
‘Are you a hiker?’
‘I used to be.’
‘Not now?’ he asked. Wendy noticed that he had poured himself another beer, bought another for her. ‘On the house,’ he said as he put the two beers down on the bar.
‘Thanks. Arthritis, unfortunately.’
‘I’ve got a bit myself. It’s a nuisance, but that’s how it is.’
‘I had a stroll up near Farm Cottage.’
‘It’s grim up there.’
‘It seemed pretty enough.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘Just a woman and an old dog.’
‘Sad story.’ Wendy put her glass of beer down and took off her jacket. The fire in the corner, too warm for her.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Bill Nichols, a strange character, used to come in here occasionally.’
‘What about him.’
‘Believed in corporal punishment, taking a strap to the kids if they played up.’
‘Is that allowed?’
‘No, of course not. But if could never be proved. His kids always supported him. Attractive children they were.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘I’ve no idea. They disappeared a few years back. The son sometimes comes back to see the mother. The daughter, not seen her since. Pretty young thing, she was.’
‘What were the children’s names?’ Wendy asked.
‘Terry, the son. The daughter, Christine, Christy. No, it was Christy. They never said much; fear of a leathering from their father, I suppose.’
‘Where’s the father now?’
‘Dead. Accident, they said.’
‘How?’ she had resumed her drinking.
‘He was more a subsistence farmer. Always believed the old-fashioned ways were the best. He would have used a horse and plough if he could have.’
‘Did he?’
‘No, but he would have. No profit margin, if you don’t rely on mechanised farm equipment. He had to use a tractor occasionally. Mind you, he kept a lot of cattle up there, as well.’
‘So how did he die?’
‘Strange story. He believed in preparing his own fertilisers, pesticides. He would come in here, and complain about the prices the companies were charging when he could make them for a fraction.’
Wendy realised the landlord was talking about a subject which interested her greatly.
The first customer since she had entered the pub came in. The landlord left to speak to them, sell them some beer and ask if they wanted to sample his wife’s steak and kidney. They did. Five minutes later he returned.
‘He made a mistake, or at least, that’s how it’s recorded.’
‘Mistake with what?’
‘He used to mess around with some nasty poisons, arsenic in particular. It used to be in rat poison, not today, though. Anyway, it appears he’s brewing up some rodent killer - accidentally pours some into a glass of water that was sat on his bench in the barn. Dead within minutes, they said.’
‘Do you believe it?’
‘No reason not to, but this is a small community - people gossip.’
‘What did they say, the gossips?’
‘That the wife poisoned him, or one of the children.’
‘What do you believe?’
‘I’m not one for gossip.’
Wendy could see no reason to stay in the Lake District. There would be no trouble with her expenses this time. The first thing the next day, she planned to fill out the forms and to get Detective Superintendent Goddard to sign.
***
It was the first arrest in a case that had gone on for too long. With a clear motive and the knowledge to carry out the murder, Isaac felt he had enough for an arrest.
Farhan knew the address, so he drove. Isaac was the first to enter the small apartment. She was alarmed to see the detective chief inspector, fractionally calmer when she saw Farhan come in behind him. A uniformed policewoman accompanied them.
‘Christy Marigold Nichols, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Charles Sutherland. Anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.’
The woman stunned, collapsed to the floor. Farhan lifted her up and placed her on a chair.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Would you please accompany us to the station.’ Isaac said. It was a time for formality and following the official procedure by the book.
A police car which had followed Farhan and Isaac out to Christy’s apartment transported her back to the station where she was officially charged. Her one phone call, Farhan made on her behalf to Linda Kerr, her lawyer.
She arrived soon after, fuming, desperate for reasons as to why.
Isaac explained the situation and informed her that a formal interview would be conducted later in the day. If she wished additional legal representation, then there was time to arrange.
The lawyer realising the situation was serious hurried down to the holding cell to meet with the accused woman. Christy Nichols sat in a foetal position at one end of the rudimentary bed provided. She was incapable of speech. Linda Kerr requested a doctor. One was supplied.
A strong sedative and the accused woman subsided into a prolonged sleep.
‘Tomorrow,’ Linda Kerr advised. ‘I need to take advice from my client and to consider my position. This may require someone more experienced than me.’
Farhan felt a deep sadness for the woman in the cell.
Chapter 39
Isaac did not feel the sadness that Farhan felt – he felt relief. Christy Nichols was a good-looking woman who, according to Wendy, had had a turbulent childhood. Mitigating circumstances in a trial. At least, the defence would put it forward, but murder was murder. The guilty had to pay for their crime, whether the murdered was despicable or the childhood, atrocious.
Wendy had been jubilant on her return from the north. Christy Nichols was in the cells before she had caught the train back from the north. She had treated herself to another night’s accommodation, courtesy of her police issue credit card. Now came the hard part, at least for her, the writing up of her report. She knew Bridget would not refuse. Asking her, was probably not the correct procedure, as her report contained confidential information, but Wendy trusted her totally.
According to Farhan, Christy Nichols was not handling the situation well, protesting her innocence. He had been to visit her; check she was okay. Apart from the need of a shower and a change of clothes, she said she was fine, although confused. Farhan arranged for a policewoman to visit her home and obtain what she required.
Isaac, at least, felt confident that Jess O’Neill was innocent of one murder, or would be once the incarcerated woman admitted to her crime. He felt the need to make the fateful phone call. He was not sure what to expect, but anxious to do it.
He had decided to tell Jess if she asked, tell her if she didn’t. He could always say it was in the course of duty, but he thought it a lame excuse. No woman, especially an intelligent woman like Jess would believe such a story. When would sleeping with someone be an acceptable part of a criminal investigation? He knew why he had slept with her – because he wanted to and because she was available.
As he picked up the phone to make the call, it rang. ‘Isaac, MacTavish wants to see us.’ Richard Goddard said.
‘When?’
Isaac asked.
‘Now.’ The reply.
Five minutes later, both were downstairs waiting for a vehicle. Twenty minutes later, they were in Angus MacTavish’s office. The man was in a jubilant mood. Isaac did not like it. He saw trouble. A possible attempt to interfere with the normal process of law.
Mrs Gregory had entered on their arrival, given Isaac a nice smile and the choice piece of home-made cake with his cup of tea. He thanked her for her kindness. She appeared to leave the room more excited than when she had entered.
‘Great work,’ MacTavish said. Richard Goddard accepted the compliment on his department’s behalf.
‘This wraps up the murders?’ MacTavish continued.
Isaac felt the need to reply. ‘Only Sutherland’s.’
‘What about the others?’
‘We do not believe they were committed by the person in custody.’
‘Why not?’ MacTavish asked.
‘No motive.’
‘But she’s a murderer? Does she need any more motive?’
Isaac realised MacTavish knew his statement was illogical; knew that MacTavish wanted the loose ends tying up, and the truth was dispensable.
‘She’ll never be convicted of the other two murders.’ Detective Superintendent Goddard said.
‘Why not?’ MacTavish persisted.
‘She had a clear motive for Sutherland. She never met Richard Williams and Sally Jenkins.’
Angus MacTavish stood up, turned his back on the two policemen. He faced the window. ‘Officially, we need to wrap it up here.’
‘The reason?’ Richard Goddard asked. His promotion was due to be confirmed in a couple of days. A wrong word and he knew what would happen.
‘Too many questions being asked.’
‘Are you asking up to break the law? Conceal a crime?’ Isaac asked.
‘It’s not up to me. It comes under the Official Secrets Act.’
‘It’s a whitewash,’ Isaac said in an unchecked outburst.’
‘You’ve heard of the Civil Contingencies Act? MacTavish, now facing them, said.
‘Our version of the American’s Patriot Act,’ Richard Goddard replied.
‘We’re invoking it.’
‘We!’ Isaac said.
‘The elected government of this country. The people charged with the responsibility of knowing what’s best for the people -that “WE”.’
‘We’re condoning murder here. You realise that?’ Isaac was angry and on his feet. All this time: three deaths, one solved, two to be pushed aside.
‘I understand your concern, but the national interest is more important.’
Isaac resumed his seat. ‘Are you confirming that two of the murders were committed by people employed in her Majesty’s service?’
‘Not at all,’ MacTavish replied. ‘All I’m saying is that there are to be no further attempts to find a culprit for those two murders.’
‘So we admit we failed – case closed. Is that it?’
‘Either you charge the woman you have in custody for the three murders and make it stick or else you state… State whatever you like: Suicide, lover’s pact, whatever, but drop it.’
‘This is contrary to what people expect of their government and their police.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Goddard.’ MacTavish looked away from Isaac and directed his gaze at his boss. ‘Your promotion is on the line, my career as well. Sometimes it’s necessary to make decisions for the people regardless of what they expect.’
‘Understood, Sir,’ Isaac said, although he felt uncomfortable with MacTavish’s outburst.
As they drove back to Challis Street, both saying little, both still stunned by the meeting, Detective Superintendent Goddard leant in Isaac’s direction. ‘Are you going to follow MacTavish’s directive?’
‘Do you expect me to, Sir?’
‘I expect you to act as a policeman.’
‘Your promotion?’
‘Does MacTavish talk for the government or his own vested interests?’
‘I don’t know, Sir.’
‘Neither do I?’ I’ve not received any instructions from my superiors at New Scotland Yard. Until then, we continue. If my career is down the drain, so be it. We can’t give up, just because a blustering Scotsman tells us to.’
‘This could get dangerous.’
‘I know that. What about Marjorie Frobisher?’
‘We’re moving her soon.’
‘Make it happen today. And make sure she is safe. Her best defence, ours as well, is if she talks.’
***
Farhan, updated on the situation, after a quick phone call from Isaac, moved the date for the transfer forward. The two remaining reporters stationed at the door had fortunately left. Robert Avers, tired of waiting for something to happen and in need of solace had apparently left for his young lover.
That was what he had told Farhan, although it was more likely he had tired of his wife’s constant need for attention, the celebrity variety, for which she had been starved for so many weeks.
‘Doesn’t the woman get it?’ Farhan had thought the last time he spoke to her. ‘Her life is under threat, and she still wants to act the “prima donna”.’
As the planned evacuation from the hospital to the cottage commenced, one of the formerly bored and disinterested reporters reappeared at the key moment.
He saw Farhan dressed as a male nurse. Quickly, he was on the phone to his superiors.
Exiting the rear of the hospital with the woman, Farhan, oblivious to the drama at the front continued on. The vehicle left as planned, unaware that at a short distance behind them followed a motorbike, its rider helmeted.
‘We’re being followed,’ the driver of the ambulance said.
Farhan looked out the small rear window of the ambulance - the driver was correct.
Not sure what to do, he phoned Isaac, who assigned a police car to pull over the motorcycle, minor traffic infraction if required. It was five miles before the motorcycle was stopped. Changing the original changeover location presented no problem.
Marjorie Frobisher transferred to the police car and headed out to the cottage.
‘I don’t like it,’ she said on arrival. To Farhan, it was charming and unique – a slice of heaven. Way out of his price bracket, way in hers.
‘We need to keep you safe.’
‘Here! I don’t see how?’
‘It’s isolated. We’ve people in the area keeping a watch.’
‘What is my life worth? I hide away for weeks and then I’m brought to this.’
‘Why were you hiding?’
‘My life.’
‘Then why complain? We’re trying to protect you.’
‘I know that. Very well, I’ll talk to DCI Cook.’
***
Richard Goddard had received confirmation that his promotion was proceeding. He was soon to be a Detective Chief Superintendent, not an Assistant Commissioner as MacTavish had intimated. He realised it may take him away from homicide, possibly into more of an administrative role. He did not concern him unduly, but the current case did.
The promotion was verbal, not documented, and he knew why? It was conditional on a satisfactory outcome. He sensed the hand of MacTavish, although the police were meant to be independent. He was aware that Williams and Sally Jenkins may need to be covered up – it would not be the first time that national security had overridden the normal function of the police. The concern this time: that it wasn’t national security, purely an indiscretion of someone in power that was coming back to haunt him.
He knew he needed to let Isaac run his race, hope that he made the right decisions. If Marjorie Frobisher’s information was dynamite, what to do with it? What would Isaac do? Keep it under cover, release snippets of it to the press?
Soon-to-be Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard could see that it was not over yet, not by a long shot. He needed to talk to his deputy chief inspector.
He phoned Isaac, who was on his wa
y out to the cottage. He had taken a circuitous route, hopeful that he wasn’t being followed. It would not have been an issue before, but now the press, alerted after the observant reporter had seen the events at the hospital, were speculating as to what was afoot.
‘Isaac, we need to talk.’
‘I’m on my way to meet with Marjorie Frobisher,’ Isaac responded on hands-free.
‘Let me know what she says.’
‘Of course.’
‘We need to consider how to progress.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is it national security? Do we comply with MacTavish or not?’
‘I thought we had decided to press on,’ Isaac said, a little perturbed as his boss’s changed attitude.
‘We have. We need to know the truth, but the national interest…’
‘National interest? I would have thought that was best served by the truth.’
‘Ordinarily, I would agree.’
‘But now?’
‘Find out what she says first. We’ll discuss the implications afterwards. That’s all I’m saying. I’m not asking you to hold back, just exercise caution.’
Isaac did not enjoy the conversation very much. It sounded as though his boss had gone soft.
***
Isaac found Marjorie Frobisher not to be in a good mood when he arrived at the cottage. He decided to ignore her complaining. The information she held was what he wanted. If, it was as controversial as the events of the past few months would indicate, then he was not sure what to do.
He was a policeman, possibly about to be asked to commit an illegal act, namely, the covering up of two murders, purely because they were professional assassinations. Richard Williams did not concern him as much as Sally Jenkins. He had seen her distraught parents at the funeral, especially her mother. They deserved the truth. He could envisage their reaction to a verdict of slain by ex-lover due to her blackmailing. That was what Isaac saw as the most likely wrap up to the case. He couldn’t agree, couldn’t see that he could do much about it.
Murder is a Tricky Business (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 1) Page 35