Isaac could not see Williams as the murdering type, but then he didn’t envisage Linda Harris in that role either. All his years of policing and training and profiling and still he got it wrong. Sure, the Swedish au-pair he had bedded had turned out to be a murderer, but then he had been younger, more naïve. It concerned him that he still made mistakes. Mistakes that could result in the death of people; had in the past. But what of the future? Would Marjorie Frobisher be another one if he acted inappropriately?
Only one man knew the answers or at least some of them. Isaac decided that he needed to see MacTavish, and if his boss was unwilling, he would go on his own.
***
Marjorie Frobisher anxiously paced around the cottage. Farhan kept to one side, letting her rant and rave. The situation was tenuous. She couldn’t stay in the cottage; she couldn’t leave.
Farhan realised that she was a difficult woman. His wife idolised her, or at least the character she portrayed. He wondered how his wife would react if she saw the reality. Would she be able to separate the actor from the person or would she be disillusioned? It was a moot point. He knew that he had to do something to calm their key witness down. If she left, how long would she remain alive? Both he and Isaac were convinced her life was at risk. If she stayed, would she keep hitting the bottle of Vodka? Either it’s death by assassin or death by alcoholic poisoning, he thought.
There was nothing in her records that indicated a history of alcoholism, but Farhan thought that it was another fact about the woman, carefully concealed.
‘You need to stay. It’s just too dangerous out there,’ Farhan had said.
Sober, she had agreed. Now, he was not so certain. She was not there charged with any crime; she was free to come and go as she pleased.
He contacted Isaac for advice. ‘She’s difficult.’
‘She must stay.’ Isaac said, not entirely focussed on his DI’s concerns. He had made the decision to phone MacTavish direct. He had said to come over later that day.
MacTavish’s first action after agreeing to Isaac’s request was to phone his boss, who was in Isaac’s office within five minutes.
‘What right have you to contact MacTavish?’
‘What option did I have?’
‘It was my call.’
‘I agree, but your position is on the line. I’m expendable; you’re not.’
‘You’re no more expendable than I am, but you don’t know who or what you’re dealing with.’
‘MacTavish is the government whip. He’s got the dirt on everyone.’
‘Everyone?’
‘Everyone of importance. He’s known all along.’
‘You’ve known this?’ Isaac asked, surprised at this revelation.
‘I’ve always suspected it. Marjorie Frobisher’s statement confirms it.’
‘So, what do we do?’ Isaac asked.
‘We go and see MacTavish. My future, as is yours, uncertain. What do we do? Confront MacTavish or not? Reveal Marjorie Frobisher to the world? Get her to tell the full story? What if this mysterious information is damaging, not only to the father but to the country? What then?’
‘Someone has to tell us something. Who do you suggest?’
‘MacTavish, if he’ll talk. The woman, if he does not.’
‘I don’t like this. I’m meant to be a policeman. This is out of my league.’
‘And mine.’
‘And what about Marjorie Frobisher?’ Isaac asked.
‘Tell DI Ahmed to restrain her by force if he has to.’
‘She won’t like it.’
‘What do I care. Three people are dead as a direct result of her great secret. What she wants is of little concern. I’ll not have her death on my conscience,’ Detective Superintendent Goddard said.
***
Life out at the production lot had returned to a semblance of normality. The soap opera was to continue, murders or no murders - the ratings and the revenues decreed it.
It had been an awkward phone call. Isaac wasn’t sure how to respond when Jess O’Neill called him. ‘I’m running the show now. I’ve assumed Richard Williams’ position as executive producer,’ she said. He noticed no malice in her voice.
‘Great. I meant to phone you,’ he replied, not sure of the response. Am I off the hook?’
‘I would say so.’
‘You have someone charged with Charles Sutherland’s murder. It’s on the internet.’
‘That’s true.’
‘They’re also saying she murdered her father as well.’
‘That’s pure supposition. We’re not pursuing that possibility.’
‘If I didn’t kill Sutherland, am I free now? Are you?’
‘Probably, but I need another few days.’
‘To come up with a suitable excuse as to why you slept with Linda Harris.’
‘No…’ He knew he stuttered the reply.
‘Maybe there was a reason. I’ll forgive you this time, but next…’
Isaac sensed a woman looking for a long-term relationship, a ring on the finger. He shuddered at the thought, smiled at the possibility. He also knew that every time they argued in the future, she would bring up Linda Harris.
‘I need to tie up the loose ends. We’re not sure how to proceed.’
‘Marjorie Frobisher?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re hiding her?’
‘Everybody seems to know that.’
‘Is she being difficult?’
‘We’re more difficult.’
‘Best of luck. This weekend, can we meet?’ she asked.
‘It’s a date,’ he said.
‘Not a police interview?’ she joked.
‘No, it’s a date.’
‘At last.’
‘Ian Stanley. How is he? Now that you’re in charge.’
‘Sycophantic.’
‘That bad?’ Isaac replied.
‘That bad!’ she acknowledged.
***
The only friendly face was Mrs Gregory. Angus MacTavish was neither welcoming nor friendly. Isaac thought he was under pressure; His boss thought he was his usual self. The atmosphere in MacTavish’s office matched the weather outside – cold and dark, threatening thunder.
‘Detective Superintendent Goddard, why am I receiving phone calls from your junior? Don’t you have your people under control?’
‘DCI Cook is frustrated with the current situation.’
‘Don’t you have protocols where you are? If he as an issue, he should take it up with you.’
‘He did, but he decided to act against my advice.’
‘That sounds like a disciplinary matter.’
‘It will be addressed at a later time.’
‘DCI Cook, what do you want from me? MacTavish, in his usual manner, had stood up and leant forward over the desk. It was meant to intimidate – it succeeded, at least, with Isaac’s boss. With Isaac, it had little effect.
Isaac knew his career was on the line, and no amount of blustering by the senior government official was going to dissuade him. He needed to know, and it was clear that MacTavish knew.
‘Marjorie Frobisher mentioned your name.’
‘I’ve never met the woman,’ MacTavish replied.
‘We know that’s not true, Sir,’
‘Maybe at some function or other.’
‘Do you know her, other than that?’
‘No.’
‘She mentioned that you were the person to speak to, regarding this secret.’
‘Which secret?’ MacTavish asked. Isaac could see his face reddening with anger. Isaac decided he did not like him.
‘The child.’
‘I told you I knew about a child. I’ve never given any indication that I know who it is.’ MacTavish resumed his seat and sat back in a confident manner, assured that he had allayed their concerns, hidden the truth.’
Isaac knew the situation; he knew the body language. He knew a lie. Not sure how to proceed, he fumbled forwa
rd. MacTavish was a powerful man, and powerful men had people behind them supporting them verbally and physically. Not that he was frightened of the man, but he wanted Marjorie Frobisher to remain alive and the truth to be revealed. A politician may regard the truth as a luxury; he, as a policeman did not.
‘If the truth was known?’ Isaac asked. ‘Would it be catastrophic?’
‘Yes.’ MacTavish replied.
‘To certain persons?’
‘To this country.’
‘Is the truth better revealed?’ Richard Goddard asked.
‘No.’ A one-word answer.
‘Mr MacTavish, this cannot continue,’ Isaac said. ‘Respectfully, you know what is going on. We need to know.’
‘Why?’
‘We have three murders. One has been solved, the other two still remain unsolved.’
‘They are not to be solved.’ MacTavish again on his feet. Mrs Gregory put her head around the door to offer tea or coffee. He unexpectedly snapped at her. She retreated back to where she had come from.
‘We can’t cover up murders,’ Richard Goddard said. ‘Police procedures won’t allow it.’
‘Then change the procedures.’
‘But, why?’ Isaac asked. ‘And what do we call them?’
‘Call them whatever you like: murder, suicide, lover’s pact. Anything, but the truth.’
‘And the truth?’ Isaac asked.
‘Williams was ordered. The other woman, probably.’
‘This is England. We can’t do that.’ Isaac protested.
‘Not only will you, you will do it today; tomorrow at the latest.’
‘Marjorie Frobisher?’
‘She’s a marked woman.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re both subject to the Official Secrets Act. You're both serving members of the Metropolitan Police. You will both do as you are told.’
***
Farhan, updated soon after the meeting with MacTavish, had his own problems. The woman was not going to stay where she was.
‘She phoned her husband.’
‘Does she know she’s a dead woman?’ Isaac asked.
‘She knows. She regards her current life as a living death. She says she’d rather be out there with her people.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Still here, but Robert Avers is coming. I can’t stop her, not anymore.’
‘You’re right; Maybe she is better off in her own home.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s no resolution to this. If she’s out there, it may help.’
‘She may be killed,’ Farhan said.
‘What else can we do?’
Richard Goddard, realising that his career was on the line, sat with Isaac. He nodded in agreement as Isaac spoke to Farhan. Wendy was not in the office; apparently, she was at home with her husband who had taken a turn for the worse.
‘Sir, what do you want us to do?’ Isaac asked. ‘Cover this up?’
‘It still won’t save the woman.’
‘She’s dead, whatever we do?’
‘It appears that way.’
‘What’s her best protection?’
‘Tell the truth.’
‘To whom?’
‘To whoever is willing to listen.’
‘The media?’
‘Yes.’
‘They’ll make sure she is dead before she speaks.’
‘Then keep it secret,’ Richard Goddard said. ‘I’ll leave it to you to figure out. Ensure DI Ahmed is her permanent security. And station some uniformed police outside her house. I assume that’s where she’ll head.’
***
Isaac realised the weekend with Jess was unlikely, and Farhan was none too pleased either. Both knew they had no other option but to comply, but unless something changed: Marjorie Frobisher would be dead, their careers, at least Isaac’s, down the drain, and two murders would remain unsolved, three if Marjorie Frobisher died as well.
Robert Avers had picked her up and transported her to their house, Farhan followed at a discreet distance – no incidents.
Isaac realised that Angus MacTavish was the problem. He wondered if he was the mysterious father, but discounted it. MacTavish had grown up in Scotland, and besides, he was several years younger than the woman. They needed to check out the schools that Marjorie Frobisher attended. It was fair to assume a school dance would focus on schools within the area. It was an angle they had not pursued before, purely because that piece of information had only just come from the woman herself.
It was clear that Wendy was needed again. Isaac, in the meantime, would see if the woman concerned, would give the name of the father.
The next day, Wendy appeared in the office. Her husband was better after falling at home and breaking his arm.
Glad to be away from the complaining man, she was in a remarkably jubilant mood in the office.
‘We need to know who this man is?’ Isaac said.
‘You want me to check out some schools?’
‘Yes.’
‘If they’re still there. It’s forty years.’
‘The records must still exist.’
It seemed difficult for Wendy to claim for an expensive hotel this time. Mavis Sidebottom, the former name of Marjorie Frobisher had grown up in a village to the west of London, less than a forty-minute drive. The records clearly stated that she had attended St. George’s Boarding and Day School between the ages of 11to 18, apart for a brief period of absence during her penultimate year. The dates aligned with her unexpected confinement.
It was also clear as Wendy drove past her childhood home, that the middle-class childhood, the daughter of a humble shopkeeper was a fabrication. The father had been a shopkeeper, but a shopkeeper of several hardware stores and home had been a good and solid two storey house in a better part of the village. The school, for those financially able to pay had been a girls’ school for over one hundred years. Before that, it had been a boys’ school. The headmistress took delight in informing Wendy that for two years, Winston Churchill had been a pupil.
The records meticulously kept and preserved in a vault beneath the main building, opened at Wendy’s request. It was a treasure trove of history: full of artefacts and sporting cups and among them records of school dances.
Miss Home, an elderly and retiring woman, charged with recording the history of the school, opened up the relevant documents. It clearly showed that during the dates concerned, there were two school dances. Those attending from St. George’s and two boys’ schools, clearly recorded.
Wendy took copies of the documents to study. There seemed little purpose in visiting the other schools until the names had been checked out. She managed to treat herself to a nice lunch on expenses before she returned.
Isaac was in the office, late afternoon when she walked in. His day had been involved with going through all the aspects of the case, attempting to tie up the loose ends, trying to figure out who killed who and why?
‘I need to check out these names,’ she said. Farhan not being there, she pushed her desk over into his area. Isaac could clearly smell the stale cigarette smoke.
‘Any names we know?’ Isaac moved over towards her desk, sat on Farhan’s chair.
‘What are we looking for?’
‘Member of the aristocracy; member of the government.’
‘Aristocracy will have the name of the title, not the family name,’ Wendy said.
‘True. I’ll leave it to you.’ He moved back to his chair.
***
Marjorie Frobisher back at her home, apparently oblivious of the situation or choosing to ignore, was making herself known to her adoring public. An impromptu interview on the steps of the house to the assembled media – according to Isaac, sheer stupidity.
Farhan had asked her to stay at home, but he had been overruled. She had breezed into her favourite restaurant as if she was the all-conquering heroine, back from doing battle, rather than the frightened woman, who had
run away and hid. It seemed to be an act; an act she managed with great aplomb.
Isaac, regardless of her condition on returning from the restaurant, felt the need to confront her. Farhan had warned him that her condition was far from conducive. Isaac thought it might be opportune and with a few drinks she may be more willing to talk.
‘Miss Frobisher, I need to know who the father is,’ Isaac said as he sat in the front room of her house in Belgravia. She was clearly drunk, clearly in need of attention. Isaac was pleased that Farhan was with him, although judging by the lecherous look in the woman’s eye, he was not sure it was safe, even then.
‘Forget about him. He let me down all those years ago.’
‘Do you feel bitterness towards him?’
‘Why should I?’
‘You have spent a long time hidden. Your life is at risk because of him.’
‘It’s not him.’
‘Then who?’
‘I told you before. Ask Angus MacTavish.’ Isaac could see it was pointless. Robert Avers had taken off to the other room, apparently disgusted at her condition. It was clear she was not going to give him a name. It was up to Wendy to find the father.
Once the father was secured, the son would soon be revealed. Isaac continued to deliberate as to who the son was and why he was so important. Without a name, it was pointless speculation and Marjorie Frobisher was of no use.
Wendy, meanwhile, excited at the prospect of success had stayed in the office late. Normally, she would leave for home at six in the evening, but it was way past eleven, closing in on midnight and still she laboured over the computer.
She admitted to no great computer skills, but she was proficient with ‘Google’. She was pleased that Isaac had agreed to come back at her request to the office.
‘I’ve found him,’ she said the moment he walked in the office.
‘Congratulations. Who is he?’
‘He’s not a Lord.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He inherited the title on the death of his father.’
Murder is a Tricky Business (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 1) Page 37