***
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. Isaac heard no malice in her voice. ‘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 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 has 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, but 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 said that you were the person to speak to regarding this secret.’
‘Which secret?’ MacTavish asked. Isaac could see his face reddening with anger.
‘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 recognised a lie. Not sure how to proceed, he fumbled forward. 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.
‘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.’
‘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, but you will also 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. Marjorie Frobisher was not going to stay where she was.
‘She has 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 would 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.’
‘What else can we do?’ Isaac said.
***
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 then 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 taken her to their house. Farhan followed at a discreet distance.
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 had 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, 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 Marjorie Frobisher would give him the name of the father.
The next day, Wendy, in a remarkably jubilant mood, appeared 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.’
‘Th
e records must still exist.’
It seemed difficult for Wendy to claim for an expensive hotel this time. Mavis Sidebottom, the childhood 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 11and 18, apart from a brief period of absence during her penultimate year. The dates aligned with her unexpected confinement.
It was also clear, as Wendy drove past Marjorie Frobisher’s 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 the home had been a substantial two-storey house in a better part of the village. The school was for those financially able to pay. It had been a girls’ school for over one hundred years, and before that 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, were opened at Wendy’s request. The vault 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. They clearly showed that during the dates concerned, there were two school dances. Those attending from St George’s and two boys’ schools were 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 to London.
It was late afternoon when she walked into the office at Challis Street. Isaac was there. His day had been involved with going through all the aspects of the case, attempting to wrap it up, trying to figure out who killed who, and why?
‘I need to check out these names,’ Wendy said. Farhan not being there, she pushed her desk over into his area. Isaac could clearly smell 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 family name, not the title,’ 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 it, 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 hidden. 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 to that. Isaac thought it might be opportune, as 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.’
‘Do you feel bitterness towards him?’
‘Why should I?’
‘You have spent a long time in hiding. 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 himself off to the other room, apparently disgusted at her condition. It was evident she was not going to give Isaac a name. It was up to Wendy to find the father.
Once the father was identified, 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 late in the office. Normally, she would leave for home at six in the evening, but it was way past eleven, close to 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 to the office at her request.
‘I’ve found him,’ she said the moment he walked in.
‘Congratulations. Who is he?’
‘He’s not a Lord.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He inherited the title on the death of his father.’
‘And?’
‘The Peerage Act of 1963.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Prior to it being enacted into law, no member of the House of Lords could take a seat as an elected Member of Parliament. He was able to renounce the title.’
‘Marjorie Frobisher referred to him as a Lord.’
‘That’s what people call him. Technically, he’s not.’
‘Are you saying it’s who I think it is?’
‘Yes, there’s only one person.’
Chapter 40
‘I did not kill Richard.’ It was not what Isaac expected to hear on picking up his phone at one o’clock in the morning.
‘Where are you?’ Hearing Linda Harris’s voice again reminded Isaac of the guilt he felt over the night they spent together; the pleasure they had mutually enjoyed, but mainly the guilt.
‘I am not in England.’
‘Then why phone?’
‘I just wanted you to know. Under different circumstances, we could have been something more.’
‘I don’t see how,’ Isaac responded.
‘We’re very much alike.’
‘Are we?’
‘Yes. We are both ambitious.’
‘I work for an organisation that tries to save lives,’ Isaac said. ‘Yours apparently condones death when it’s in the national interest.’
‘I was there to find out where Marjorie Frobisher was, nothing more.’
‘Is her life in danger?’
‘Probably.’
‘Because of what she knows?’ Isaac, regardless of his initial trepidation, was enjoying the conversation.
‘Yes.’
‘What does she know?’
‘I never knew. I’m relatively junior. They never told me.’
‘They?’
‘My superiors.’
‘Do they have a name?’
‘I am not authorised to tell you.’
‘Who is?’
‘I don’t know. I just wanted to phone and say I was sorry; to let you know that I did not kill Richard.’
‘Sally Jenkins?’ Isaac asked.
‘She knew too much.’
‘Are you saying you killed her?’
‘Someone else did.’
‘Who?’
‘Richard.’
‘Why?’
‘She was blackmailing him, threatening to go to the newspapers.’
‘About what?’
‘Marjorie Frobisher. He did it to protect her.’
‘You provided him with an alibi.’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you with him that night?’
‘Some of it, but not in his bed.’ With that, she hung up. Isaac, shocked by what he had been told, sat down for a couple of minutes to compose himself.
***
Richard Goddard, woken up from a deep slumber in the early hours of the morning, was initially angry. Upon hearing Isaac’s voice, he moved to another room.
‘Sally Jenkins was not assassinated,’ Isaac said.
; Isaac recounted the phone conversation with Linda Harris.
Goddard listened calmly. ‘How do we handle this?’ he asked.
‘It’s clear that Richard Williams knew, as did Sally Jenkins.’
‘Can we prove that Sally Jenkins was murdered by Richard Williams?’
‘The evidence is circumstantial. We’ll never be able to prove it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Richard Williams had been in Sally Jenkins’ place on many occasions. His DNA, fingerprints are everywhere. There’s nothing conclusively tying him to the night of her death,’ Isaac said.
‘Apart from Linda Harris.’ Richard Goddard realised, as did Isaac, that she was not going to come forward to point the blame at Williams. ‘So how do we record it?’
‘Crime unsolved, I suppose.’
‘What about Richard Williams?’
‘It appears to be a professional assassination. It doesn’t make sense. Williams kills to keep the secret, and then he is shot because he knows it.’
‘It’s clear that he was not about to reveal it.’
‘If Marjorie Frobisher had been liquidated, he may have.’
‘Are we saying that she’s safe now?’
‘She still knows who this person is.’
‘Will she tell?’
‘Probably not.’
‘She’s still a target.’ Richard Goddard stated the obvious.
***
An austere, wood-panelled office in the Houses of Parliament in Westminster; a meeting between two powerful men.
‘Angus, have we dealt with all the loose ends?’
‘Not yet. The woman remains alive.’
‘And the child?’
‘He continues to search for his parents.’
‘What proof do we have that he does not know the truth?’
‘If he knew, he would exercise his right to the peerage; his right to your title.’
‘On my death?’
‘He would have no issue with ensuring you had a convenient accident.’
‘You know what to do.’
‘I will ensure the instruction is carried out immediately.’
‘She could still talk,’ the father said.
‘Her current behaviour indicates that possibility.’
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1 Page 33