It was later in the afternoon, after their discussion in the office, that Farhan left early to pick up his children from school. Isaac could see he was concerned, and he was making a special effort. He wondered for how long.
Police work, especially with the Murder Investigation Team, did not come with a nine to five schedule. Hours were flexible, forty a week according to the book, but most weeks more like sixty to seventy, sometimes eighty to ninety, and then there were the weekends. Saturdays, often working, Sunday, more times than he cared to remember. Sophie was flexible, Jess O’Neill may not be, but he’d take her in an instant. He put her out of his mind and left early as well.
Richard Goddard had organised a contact in Worcestershire, about three hours west, or it should be, but there was the London traffic to clear first. Isaac decided to leave early, before seven in the morning.
He wanted to call Sophie, although he didn’t want her endangered. Those following him earlier in the day were unknown, possibly dangerous. Just as Isaac was leaving the car park his phone rang, hands-free.
‘I’m being tailed,’ Farhan said.
‘Number plate?’
‘I’ll SMS it to you. Can you forward it to Detective Superintendent Goddard?’
‘That’s two to give to him.’
‘You’ve got a tail as well?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’d better hope these guys are harmless. I’m heading to my home.’
‘If they are who we suspect, they’ll know your address already.’ Isaac realised they would also know where he lived, probably knew about Sophie as well. There seemed no reason to worry. He called her. She would be over later.
***
Charles Sutherland was enjoying his redemption. The magazine had been suitably impressed, continued to be, as he revealed little snippets ‒ enough to keep them dangling.
He was not a stupid man; he knew the value of a legally drawn up contract signed by both parties. He also knew the worth of some cash up front and the remainder when he delivered the dirt. If he gave too much, too quickly, their offer would reduce or evaporate. He was not willing to let that happen.
The mention of an open marriage titillated the magazine’s editor, an attractive middle-aged woman constantly on the television offering advice on how to be successful as a female in a man’s world, how to power dress, how to be like her. Sutherland found her obnoxious and overbearing, full of the smugness that comes with a portrayed persona and an inner bitchiness. He didn’t trust her one bit. Sure, she was pleasant to his face, but he could see the sideways glances, the raised eyebrows when she looked over at her deputy ‒ he had no idea what her function was in the office, didn’t care either. They were paying the money and he wasn’t going to upset the apple cart with a snide remark.
‘You’ve given us very little.’ The editor pressured for more.
‘I’ve given you plenty,’ Sutherland replied. The room he sat in, one of the best at one of the best hotels in the town, came with a well-stocked drinks cabinet, and the cost to him was zero. He was already halfway to drunk, and he was not going to let them get between him and the euphoria he was looking forward to. He had already phoned for a couple of high-class whores, and they were on the magazine's expense account.
Sutherland saw himself as Lazarus rising from the dead. He intended to milk it for all it was worth, and to hell with the bitch magazine editor and her girlfriend. The contract, legal and very tight, was well underway; some minor clauses to iron out, some significant money to be handed over, and then he would dish out the dirt. The magazine wanted more than salacious tittle-tattle, although it was such nonsense that drove the sales. They wanted names and events, and the more important, the more titled, and the more likely to fall from grace with a major embarrassment, the better.
‘Look here,’ Sutherland said. He was slurring his words, making suggestive glances at Christy Nichols, who had rescued him from obscurity. ‘This will bring down the government. I guarantee you that.’
Christy Nichols, now on a suitable retainer from the magazine, had been assigned to ensure that Sutherland did not go blabbing his mouth off indiscriminately in a bar or elsewhere. She had been given a room next to his. She did not want to be there, but the retainer, the possible lift up in her career, in an industry that was full of casualties who did not make the grade, kept her firmly rooted.
She had agreed reluctantly, although she found Charles Sutherland to be a crude man with a debatable style of lovemaking. She had walked in on him when he was in full fettle with a couple of whores, all naked on the carpet in the main room. It was an innocent mistake on her part, as it was all quiet and they were hidden by the sofa. Upon seeing her, he had stood up, waved his insignificant wares at her and demanded that as he was her meal ticket, she had better strip off straight away and join in the fun.
The whores thought it was hilarious, but Christy Nichols assumed it was because they were being paid. She realised they were tolerating the nasty and unpleasant man for the same reason as her.
It was another two days before the contract was signed, and Charles Sutherland had to come forward with what he knew. He was a troubled man, not because of what he knew, but because the proof
