‘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 customers 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 longer 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 them.
***
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.’
The woman, stunned, collapsed to the floor. Farhan lifted her up and sat 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 that had followed Farhan and Isaac 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 Eileen Kerr, her lawyer.
She arrived soon after, fuming, desperate for reasons for the arrest.
Isaac explained the situation and informed her that a formal interview would be conducted later in the day. If she wished to have additional legal representation, then there was time to arrange it.
The lawyer, realising the situation was serious, hurried down to the holding cell to meet her client. Christy Nichols sat in a foetal position at one end of the rudimentary bed provided. She was incapable of speech. Eileen Kerr requested a doctor. One was supplied.
A strong sedative, and the accused woman subsided into a prolonged sleep.
‘Tomorrow,’ Eileen 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 38
Isaac did not feel the sadness that Farhan felt – he felt relief. Christy Nichols who, according to Wendy, had had a turbulent childhood; mitigating circumstances would obviously be put forward in a trial. At least, the defence would put them forward, but murder was murder. The guilty had to pay for their crime, whether the murdered person was despicable or the childhood of the accused atrocious.
Wendy had been jubilant on her return from the north. Christy Nichols was in the cells before she had caught the train back to London. Now came the hard part, at least for her, the writing up of her report. She knew Bridget would not refuse to help.
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 needing a shower and a change of clothes, she appeared confused. Farhan arranged for a policewoman to visit her home and obtain what she required.
Isaac felt confident that Jess O’Neill was innocent of one murder.
He had decided to tell Jess if she asked about Linda Harris, tell her if she didn’t. He could always say it was in the course of duty, but he thought it a lame excuse. 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 car. 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 friendly smile and the choice piece of home-made cake with his cup of tea. He thanked her for her kindness.
‘Great work,’ MacTavish said. Richard Goddard accepted the compliment on his department’s behalf.
‘This wraps up the murders?’ MacTavish continued.
Isaac replied, ‘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 that 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 us 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 emp
loyed 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.’
‘We admit we failed – case closed. Is that it?’
‘Either you charge the woman you have in custody with 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 Isaac’s 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 in a quick phone call from Isaac, moved the date for the transfer forward. The two remaining reporters stationed at the hospital 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, of 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 uninterested reporters reappeared at the critical 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. The vehicle left as planned, unaware that a short distance behind them followed a motorbike, its rider helmeted.
‘We’re being followed,’ the driver of the ambulance said.
Farhan looked out of 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 have 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. It 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 the murders of 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.
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 DCI.
He phoned Isaac, who was on his way 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 at 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 in a good mood when he arrived at the cottage. He decided to ignore her complaints. The information she held was what he wanted. If it was as controversial as the events of the past few months indicated, then he was not sure what to do.
He was a policeman who was 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 murder by an ex-lover. 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.
Christy Nichols still needed to make an official statement, and they couldn’t hold her for much longer. Once finished with Marjorie Frobisher, he intended to conduct the interview with Sutherland’s alleged murderer. The evidence seemed too strong to believe otherwise.
‘Miss Frobisher, are you ready to tell us the truth?’ Isaac asked on his arrival at her hideaway.
‘Yes.’
‘You are aware that your reluctance to come forward has cost the life of several people?’
‘Not Charles Sutherland.’
‘No, that is clear. We believe his death is not related.’
‘But Richard’s is.’
‘Yes, that appears to be the case, as well as Sally Jenkins. We’ve discussed this before.’
‘I’m sorry about Richard. He was a good man, a good friend.’
‘He was more than that, wasn’t he?’
‘We lived together in the past.’
‘And recently?’
‘We looked out for each other. If I had not become so close to Richard, if I had not told him what I’m about to tell you, he would still be alive.’
‘That’s hindsight. We can only deal with the future.’
‘And what will happen to you? You’re a policeman. Will they force you to keep quiet? Cover it up. Allow me to be killed.’
She had hit the nail on the head. How would he react? How would anyone react in the same situation? He had no answer that would suffice.
‘I’m sworn to uphold the law.’ Isaac knew it was a clichéd reply. He was surprised he had uttered it.
Farhan prepared some coffee. It was clear the woman could become emotional. A policewoman stood to one side.
‘When I was younger, I formed a relationship with a man.’
‘How young?’
‘I was sixteen. He was eighteen.’
‘Where did you meet?’
‘At a school dance.’
‘There seems to be nothing wrong in that.’
‘There wasn’t, although it was before the pill and loose morals.’
‘You slept with him?’
‘Up against a wall. I’d hardly call that sleep. It was just too people, children really, screwing. No point pretending it was anything more.’
‘Then what?’ Isaac asked.
‘We used to meet up every few days. Don’t attempt to imagine it was a typical romance. It was sex, whether in the park, or his school dormitory, or the back of a local cinema.’
‘Did you like the man?’
‘Yes. And he liked me, but we were different.’
‘In what way?’
‘I was middle class. He was upper, a member of the aristocracy. I was Mavis Sidebottom, daughter of a successful shopkeeper.’
‘No meeting of each other’s parents?’
‘He wanted to meet mine, but I never introduced him.’
‘Any reason why?’
‘I could see the reality. I was fond of him, as he was of me, but there was no future.’
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1 Page 31