‘Certainly, I know more than you. My requirement was to keep her quiet. We would never condone murder.’
‘It’s important that I receive more information.’
‘I don’t see that I am at liberty to give you much more.’
‘Then I don’t see how I can protect you or whoever you’re trying to protect.’
Richard Goddard knew he was in treacherous waters. There was a promotion he wanted, and he was aware that getting on the wrong side of MacTavish, who answered to the prime minister, who was good friends with Commissioner Charles Shaw, the senior man in the Metropolitan Police, was not ideal.
‘Detective Superintendent, of course you’re right. Let’s look at it from where I’m sitting. Sutherland’s death may be totally unrelated. Correct?’
‘Correct.’
‘What sort of man was he?’
‘Unpleasant, heavily into alcohol, recreational drugs and prostitutes, if he had the money.’
‘Gambling?’
‘Gambling as well, but that’s taken us nowhere so far. We haven’t found any evidence of anyone hassling him to pay up.’
‘And if he’s dead, he won’t be paying anyway.’
‘He was aiming to make a lot of money by selling his story. A gambling syndicate would wait their time before threatening him.’
‘Then who killed him?’
‘You mentioned the security services before.’
‘I’ve checked with my contacts. They say it’s not feasible. A kill would require paperwork. The official line is that it doesn’t exist.’
‘Do you trust them?’
‘Not entirely.’
‘The motive for killing Sutherland is still unclear.’
Angus MacTavish, at a loss on how to move it forward, excused himself from the office. A minute later, Mrs Gregory came through the door with a fresh pot of tea and some more biscuits. Richard Goddard teased her about his attempts to lose weight. She laughed, told him not to worry and left the room. It was thirty-five minutes before MacTavish returned. The detective superintendent had drunk all the tea in that time, looked out the window, and stroked the cat that had wandered in. He sensed the politician had been taking instructions.
‘Sorry about that,’ MacTavish apologised.
‘Not a problem.’
‘I told my superiors that I need to take you into our confidence.’
‘They agreed?’
‘Reluctantly. I’ve told them that you cannot find Marjorie Frobisher or solve Sutherland’s murder without additional facts.’
‘That’s true.’
‘There was a child,’ MacTavish said.
‘You mentioned this before.’
‘The father is important, the child more so.’
‘The child, does it know who its parents are?’
‘Not yet, but it is trying to find out.’
‘How old would this child be?’
‘Late thirties, early forties.’
‘Do you know who this child is?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know who the father is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then where is the complication? Surely you can stop the child finding out.’
‘It cannot be stopped for much longer.’
‘What if the father made a public statement, acknowledged the errors of the past, embraced the child as part of his long-lost family?’
‘It’s more serious than that. I’ve told you as much as I can,’ MacTavish said. ‘Any more would place you and your people in a precarious position.’
‘How about you?’
‘I’m already compromised. I’m a marked man if this gets out.’
‘And you don’t really know what you are compromising?’
‘I am aware that revealing the father will almost certainly bring down the government. Revealing the child is potentially catastrophic.’
‘How serious?’
‘My life for one, and I don’t know the full details.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Richard Goddard felt sympathetic towards Angus MacTavish; fear for himself and his team.
‘Find out who killed Sutherland and find Marjorie Frobisher, dead or alive.’
‘One more question. Does Marjorie Frobisher know who the child is?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Could it be why Sutherland was killed?’
‘Yet again, it’s unknown. My contacts think it’s unlikely that he was murdered by an official assassin, but then again, who really knows?’
Detective Superintendent Goddard knew that telling Isaac and DI Ahmed was going to prove difficult. They needed to find Marjorie Frobisher, and they needed additional help.
***
Farhan had drawn the short straw. That was how he saw it when he met the editor of the magazine that had been paying Charles Sutherland’s bill.
‘I paid plenty out for him, including his whores. God knows why that Christy Nichols approved them.’
He had barely entered her office before she started with the invective, barely had a chance to introduce himself and explain the reason for his visit. A formal introduction, cut short, about how it was a murder investigation and that he would be recording the conversation.
He had set up the meeting for three in the afternoon. Her personal assistant had made it clear any earlier was not possible. He had reminded her that it was a murder investigation, and his demands had precedence over the magazine’s deadline. The personal assistant made it clear that it was non-negotiable, and if he wanted to take it up with her boss, then he could. At the end of their conversation, she had quietly advised him that it was best not mentioned if he didn’t want to be on the end of an ear-bashing.
As he sat there, increasingly agitated, listening to the editor, he heeded her personal assistant’s words.
‘What do you want to know? My time is precious.’ Victoria Webster, the editor, as well-known on the television as off, was a tall woman, certainly taller than Farhan.
Close up he could see that the beautiful skin, wrinkle-free whenever she was on the television, was a result of the makeup people.
In the confines of the office, she spoke in an aggressive manner. On the television, a different persona with charm and decorum. Farhan realised that the woman that millions admired was no more than a street fighter, brought up on the street, fighting tooth and nail to be where she was, and she wasn’t going back.
Her background was well-known. The illegitimate daughter of an Irish housemaid
