‘It seems a logical conclusion. We are assuming Charles Sutherland died because he was going to talk to the magazine about what he knew.’
‘And you believe Sally Jenkins knew as well.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Either she was involved with Sutherland or she heard something. Is that what you are saying?’
‘We’ve discounted any involvement with Sutherland. The only information she could have would have come from Richard Williams. There seems to be no other explanation.’
‘I certainly haven’t heard anything in the office, although I’m not an eavesdropper. Apparently, she was.’
‘If you haven’t heard anything at work, maybe you have elsewhere.’
‘How?’
‘Does he talk in his sleep?’
‘He doesn’t sleep much.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Not because of me. It’s the man’s metabolism. He sleeps for three or four hours, and then he’s prowling about, making a cup of tea, snacking from the fridge, writing emails. Mildly annoying. I need eight hours at least, or I’m cranky the next day.’
‘In his limited sleep time, does he talk?’ Isaac returned to the original question.
‘Sometimes, but I take little notice. I’m a heavy sleeper, take a sleeping pill occasionally. Do you think Sally heard something?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘If someone thinks I heard something as well?’
‘You need to take care, maybe distance yourself a little from him.’
‘That’s not an issue. I’m not sleeping with Richard anymore. It was only a short-term fling for both of us. He likes his women a little more common than me, and I do not need a man attempting to prove his virility. I’ve more pride than that.’
‘You’ll continue to work with him?’
‘I said I would until I’ve fixed up the administration, or until he finds a Sally Jenkins replacement.’
Isaac felt satisfied with her responses, not certain about her safety, but there was an unknown assailant, and the police could not protect everyone in potential danger. And if the murders were professional, would the police even be capable of waylaying a determined assassin?
Chapter 26
Wendy, frustrated with the slow progress on checking the security videos at Paddington Station, decided to leave early and return the next day, but not before calling in at Challis Street. She needed to check if there had been any success at finding the missing woman from the video she had obtained in Worcester.
Bridget Halloran greeted Wendy as she entered the office on the lower floor of the building. She was a good-looking woman, with a strong Irish accent. She and Wendy had hit it off when Bridget first arrived in the building a few years earlier. Both had a story to tell and an easy-going sense of humour. Wendy enjoyed being out in the field, Bridget preferred the office, even the reports that needed preparing. She had helped Wendy a few times with her spelling, which was atrocious. It can be rectified, Bridget had assured her, but Wendy never took her advice, and as long as Bridget remained in the building, she never would.
Wendy was almost fifteen years older than Bridget, yet they were firm friends, inside and outside the police force. Both were partial to a good drink, too many sometimes, and Wendy’s husband had complained on more than one occasion when the taxi driver had had to assist her into the house. Bridget’s long time, live-in lover had tried complaining, but as she told Wendy, ‘If he starts complaining, he’ll get the back of my hand and a quick push out the front door.’ It was a fair statement, as a small inheritance from a favourite aunt had allowed Bridget to put the deposit down on the house, and she had no intention of allowing her lover to have any financial stake in it. Not unless he made an honest woman of her, and he didn’t look like doing that anytime soon. Besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be an honest woman. She felt the need to play up on occasions, and doing so with a ring on her finger would have offended her strict Roman Catholic upbringing. Wendy had covered for her a few times.
Bridget knew the lover would not be checking too hard on her. He was not ambitious, maintained a mundane job working for the council, but he provided company. He had his part to play in the agreement, and as long as he abided by the conditions, he was free to live with her rent-free.
‘Any luck with the video?’ Wendy asked after they had spent more than a few minutes nattering, making plans for another night out.
‘She boarded the train. Let me show you.’
All Wendy could see was a grainy screen with what looked like a dead fly in one camera, out of focus and blurry.
‘It’s not very clear,’ she confessed, not sure if it was her eyesight.
‘They never are. No one cleans the cameras. The pollution slowly builds up. Just squint your eyes a little, may help.’
Wendy squinted; it helped a little. All she could see was a woman vaguely matching the description getting into the third carriage of the Paddington bound train. Another five people appeared to get on as well, and they were clearly not middle-aged. One was male and old, the way he walked attesting to that fact. Another two apparently newlyweds, or newly enchanted with each other. The other two, children from what she could see. It had to be Marjorie Frobisher, although the face was concealed and the resolution on the camera did not help.
By the time they had finished looking at the video, it was too late in the day to return to Paddington Station. She had phoned Brian Gee, the self-confessed computer nerd, and sent him an email attachment with the three best stills taken from the Worcester Station video. She then called the station manager, a matter of courtesy, to thank him for his help and to suggest that perhaps they could catch up for a cup of tea tomorrow, her treat, which seemed a lame remark. He was British Rail – the tea was his, and he didn’t have to pay for it.
***
Christy Nichols had passed on to Farhan the details of who was involved in smuggling the two escorts into the hotel. He should have met with them first, and then Aisha.
He decided against meeting Olivia if he could. He saw her as a decent woman indulging in an unusual occupation to provide for her family, who would not have understood.
There had been pressure to reveal his contacts, a procedural requirement. He knew if there were an audit of the department, he would receive a severe reprimand. Not revealing the women’s identities would hamper his promotion prospects; giving their names would cause him a moral dilemma, as they had spoken to him in confidence.
Farhan understood that Detective Superintendent Goddard was not willing to rock the boat if it affected his ambition, but would turn a blind eye if it did not. Farhan had decided come what may that Samantha’s and Olivia’s true identities would remain concealed, but Christy Nichols knew the agency.
Marion Robertson, the principal of the agency, may not have felt such reluctance, especially if pressure was applied: legal pressure, running a house of ill-repute, profiting from the proceeds of prostitution, employing illegal immigrants. He was certain she was not guilty of any crime, certainly none that was too serious, but if pressured, those doing the questioning would almost certainly bring up the possible avenues of enquiry, and she would have other women on her books. Farhan knew the possibility of the two women being identified was strong. He had to let them know.
He phoned Olivia. She was not pleased to hear from him. He explained the situation and asked whether she had told Agnew. She said her identity was more important than a few hundred pounds, and besides, her husband’s financial situation had improved, and the need to prostitute herself was not as important, although they were looking at a bigger house to buy. Farhan saw that selling herself caused her no personal issues.
He explained the possibility of her identity being revealed. It caused her great alarm. He said that he would never reveal it, but others might. He advised her to consider her position, and if he thought her identity was soon to be revealed, he would attempt to contact her in advance. She thank
ed him. She sounded genuine.
Aisha was also disturbed when he phoned her, although initially she had been delighted. He had been honest with Olivia; he would be with her. Olivia meant nothing to him, Aisha did. They agreed to meet.
***
Farhan, personally involved, wishing he could be detached but knowing he could not, thought a better location than Hyde Park would be more appropriate. Aisha had taken a half-day off from work. She had something to tell him. He hoped it was not a confession.
A riverside hotel, overlooking the Thames with a clear view of Tower Bridge, was chosen by both. She arrived in her workday clothes, a smart business suit, sombre in colour, as befitted her chosen profession of lawyer. Farhan arrived, suit and tie, although he loosened his tie once they were sitting down. Both were a little excited; both showed it.
‘I’ve got some good news,’ she said. Farhan breathed a sigh of relief – it was not to be a confession. A waiter hovered, anxious to take their order. They ignored him.
‘Aisha, this is official,’ he said. He knew that what he needed to ask her should have been done in a more formal setting. Smiles and touching of hands across the table did not constitute official police proceedings. He knew he could not stop.
‘Let me tell you my news first.’ She seemed oblivious of what he wanted to ask, uninterested in her other life. She knew she was acting like a love-struck teenager out on a first date. The teenager she was not, but love-struck and the first date were certainly correct. She would not say it openly, but if asked, she would have admitted that she felt more than a fondness for Farhan Ahmed, the upright and serious detective inspector. He knew her story, her ambition, her screwing men for money. She hoped he would understand, not as a policeman but as someone she could spend the rest of her life with.
The waiter, increasingly annoyed at being ignored, eventually succeeded in taking their order. Both ordered fruit juices and salads. Business was brisk, and it was evident the establishment had the policy of quickly sit the patrons down, feed them, and get them out of the door as fast as possible, credit cards suitably debited. The punters, as the hotel landlord, a foul-mouthed Irishman, referred to the patrons. He only cared about the money in his bank account. The service the hotel provided was only there to ensure the maximum return on investment. He was not wrong about his concern for profit, for the situation in the city was challenging for any business. Rents were high, labour costs through the roof, and a riverside hotel overlooking the Thames could not easily relocate down past Canary Wharf to somewhere cheaper. The owner, a Russian businessman, based in Moscow, mansion in Kensington, knew that only too well.
Farhan also flashed his police badge and directed his glance towards a couple of young girls, obviously under age, sitting with a group of men, two tables away. The waiter understood. Farhan and Aisha would not be rushed out of the premises if the hotel did not want trouble.
‘Tell me your news,’ he said.
‘I’ve passed my exams.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘They’ve offered me a more senior position. There will be some delay before I start representing clients on my own, but it’s a great start.’
‘Did you see the press conference with Detective Superintendent Goddard and DCI Cook?’
‘I couldn’t watch it. It was on the television at my home. My parents were watching it, making comments. I was too ashamed. I left the room. They wanted to speak about it later; how disgraceful it was that women behave in that manner. I changed the subject, left the house, and went for a walk. I don’t want to think about that life. It’s almost as if it’s a dream.’
‘Unfortunately, it’s not a dream, and it’s still a murder investigation.’
‘I’ve not been back to Marion Robertson since. I can’t imagine giving myself to another man purely for money now. I should be embarrassed to say that to you.’
‘Why aren’t you?’ he asked.
‘Maybe you can’t forgive, not totally, but you are able to put it to one side, not judge me too harshly.’
‘It depends on the woman.’
‘Am I that woman?’ she asked coyly.
‘There’s still the fact of two dead bodies to be dealt with.’ Farhan tried to bring the conversation back to official. He knew he was losing the battle: the weather was too good, Aisha too cheerful, and her beauty distracted him totally.
‘I only know about one,’ she said.
‘Someone told a reporter that you and Olivia were in the hotel with Sutherland.’
‘It wasn’t me. How can you ask? You know me well enough to know that I wouldn’t do that.’
‘I know. Still, I had to ask.’
‘Why me? Why not Olivia? Why not the staff at the hotel? It was hardly a great secret; it’s not the first time I’ve been there.’
‘I phoned Olivia. I’ve yet to speak to the staff. I’ve also talked to Christy Nichols.’
‘Why didn’t you meet with Olivia?’
‘I wanted to protect her identity, and besides, I don’t believe she would do it. Her secret is too important.’
‘And you think I might. Don’t you think my secrecy is important?’
‘Of course I do. That’s why we haven’t met recently.’
‘I don’t understand.’ The mood had become chilly. ‘You are risking my secrecy now.’
‘We’ve met here. It would be construed by the casual observer that we are two people enjoying each other’s company. Here, in this crowded place, is the most secret place. We are here because I want to protect you. Because I had a legitimate reason to meet with you.’ The mood warmed.
‘You’ve used someone at the hotel talking out of turn as an excuse to meet up with me again.’
‘In part, I admit. But there still remains someone we don’t know about. Someone that was able to get him naked and to take a drink voluntarily.’
‘With the drugs he was on, that could be anyone.’
‘Are you indicating that it could have been a man?’
‘No, although it could have been his minder.’
‘We’ve discounted her at the present time.’
‘I certainly saw no one else. Olivia probably didn’t either. I’ve stayed chaste since we last met. I said I would.’
They both ordered a glass of wine, not because they were drinkers, but because the situation required a relaxant. One hour later, they were upstairs in a room alone together. Not because of the alcohol, not because of her former profession, not because he had not been with a woman for a long time, although that had been an unsatisfactory coupling with a cold and unloving woman. It was because they wanted to be together; because they both felt a strong emotional tie.
It was early evening when they left the hotel. He, feeling guilty that he had acted unprofessionally; she, elated in that she had experienced sex without money and had not needed to pretend. He knew his house that night was not going to feel so lonely; she, satisfied that she had found a man that she could love, a man her parents would approve of, a man who knew her secret.
Chapter 27
Early morning rush hour was not the best time to find a parking spot anywhere near Paddington Station. In the end, Wendy found a loading zone and put a police parking permit in the car window.
She knew a few delivery vehicle drivers would be cursing her – the bad language a certainty – but she had no option. Brian Gee’s information seemed important. She did not like using police privilege unless necessary.
‘I’ve found her.’ She had barely entered the room when Brian Gee came up to her, shook her warmly by the hand and announced his success.
‘Where?’
‘The photos you sent. We were able to correlate them against the people on the station around the time the train arrived.’
‘Was she wearing the same clothes?’
‘That’s what made it easy. We also managed to get a facial. It’s not crystal clear, but it’s okay. A new camera had just been installed, so it wasn’t yet choked with pol
lution.’
Wendy phoned Isaac with the news.
After the quick phone call, she turned her attention back to Brian Gee. ‘Positive ID?’
‘Ninety-five percent. That’s good enough for me.’ He offered her a cup of coffee, tepid, out of a machine in the corner. She realised that if she wanted a British Rail cup of tea she would have to go and see the station manager, which she intended to do before she left.
‘What else do you have?’
‘She was met by someone.’
‘Any idea who?’
‘What we can see is one person, slightly taller than her and wearing a thick coat and a baseball cap.’
‘Male or female?’
‘Judging by the way the person walked, I’d say it was a man.’
‘Any idea as to age, colour?’
‘I’ll give you copies of the video. Apart from male, thick coat, baseball cap, there’s not a lot more I can give you. We know they exited the station and headed in an easterly direction.’
‘Was she pleased to see the person?’
‘Yet again, you can make your own decision. She seemed to greet the man. After that, she can be seen walking at his side with his right hand holding onto her left arm. It’s difficult to tell if it was a friendly gesture. The station was very busy. Maybe he was just ensuring he did not lose her.’
She realised that she should pick up the video and head back to Challis Street at top speed and give the tape to Bridget, but she still had a cup of tea on her mind. Station Manager Broughton had the tea ready when she arrived, as well as a cheese and tomato sandwich. It was not stale. His office still had the unique smell she remembered from the previous day. It was homely and comfy, not like her home with her increasingly vague and complaining husband. She knew that one day she would need to consider placing him in a nursing home, maybe before she retired. What would she do then? Maybe travel, maybe take a course, maybe find someone else to keep her company, purely platonic? She could not see herself being on her own.
By the time she arrived back at the car, it had been four hours. The delivery driver trying to park, not intimidated by the official police sign, and not showing any respect for a woman, gave her a verbal dressing down.
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3 Page 20
